


Black or White or Vivid Colour (after a while it all runs together)

by Pammcasso



Series: I Have Never Known Colour (like this morning reveals to me) [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Colour is only seen when your Soulmate is near, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Life on Earth has been rough, M/M, POV Multiple, Playing it fast and loose with canon here folks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, but everything remains in character, but they're trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 147,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8784112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pammcasso/pseuds/Pammcasso
Summary: Continuation of World is Brighter Than the Sun 'verse, where the world is in black and white until you're in proximity to your soulmate. In the aftermath of the destruction of the Mountain, Arkadia is trying to find its feet, political tension simmers in Polis, and colour-matches remain more trouble than they're worth.Meanwhile, some witch called Alie claims to have a cure for colour blindness.





	1. Prologue: A Day in the Life

**Author's Note:**

> We're back!! The two of us have been working on this basically since season three ended. We're almost finished now and super excited for you to read it. We'll start posting the main story in a couple weeks, but wanted to share the prologue with you now. It takes place between season two and three. 
> 
> Enjoy - looking forward to hearing your thoughts!

**Octavia, January 3rd 2150**

 

They are coming.

Octavia is under the floor of the Ark, her back pressed to the cold metal, her knees crammed up in the tiny space. Footsteps pound over her head, thundering in her ears, jarring through her bones. They are coming for her; they are going to find her. She twists in the narrow space, desperately trying to crawl away, terror a drumbeat in her chest. It’s useless. The second she starts to move the passageway contracts around her, closing in on all sides, trapping her in place. She can’t move, can’t breathe, and the footsteps are getting louder.

She bites down, hard, on her blood-red knuckles to keep from screaming.

 _Wait_. Her mind stops short. _This isn’t right. The Ark was never meant to be in colour._

Octavia snaps awake, her eyes flying open. Above her head is nothing but the dark metal of the Ark, and for a moment the panic is paralysing. Her heart is beating out of her chest in hard, painful throbs and it’s a struggle to regain her breath. With some effort, she drags herself into a sitting position, feet dangling over the edge of the bed, freezing in the cold morning air. And however many deep breaths she takes, the choking claustrophobia of her dream refuses to dissipate.

She’s not that girl anymore. She’s not helpless. She’s not afraid. She will never hide under a floorboard again.

If she repeats it to herself enough, maybe she’ll believe it.

By her side, Lincoln is still asleep, apparently undisturbed by her nightmare. She hopes, for his sake, that his dreams are better than hers tonight. In the months they’ve been here, there’s never been a week where one of them hasn’t woken the other with screaming. Lincoln’s dreams, Octavia knows, are haunted by red and the memory of a drug that she’s terrified he still craves. Like everyone else, Octavia and Lincoln shove down their demons during the day, only succumbing to them in their dreams. Trauma is nothing special in this camp.

Octavia slips silently from the bed. The metal floor is ice on her bare toes, but the pain is grounding and familiar. She looks around her quarters, reorienting herself. Her very own Ark quarters. That’s something she definitely never saw coming. It had taken a while for the engineers to decide the Ark wasn’t going to collapse in on everyone, but once they’d signed off on it, Abby opened up just over two hundred living quarters. Still not enough to fit everyone comfortably, but it was a start. More than that, it was their new home. Ark 2.0. _Arkadia._

Octavia knows she should be grateful. They have a roof and a bed and relative warmth through the coldest months of the year, but she can’t help it: she _hates_ the Ark. She hates the creaking walls and the stale air and the crash of footsteps when people stomp around on the metal floor. If it weren’t for the frost on the ground and Lincoln’s flat refusal, Octavia would have insisted on sleeping outside.

She has to get out. As she’s pulling on her boots, she hears Lincoln shift on the bed.

“Octavia?” Bleary-eyed, but alert, he’s watching her with concern. Octavia slips across the room to press a hand to his shoulder.

“Go back to sleep,” she tells him in smooth Trigedasleng. “I’m just going for a walk.”

Lincoln looks like he might protest, or offer to go with her, but he doesn’t. They know each other well enough by now, he can read the desperation in her eyes, the itch to be elsewhere. He might not like it, but she knows he won’t argue. Everyone has their way of dealing, this is hers.

He nods.

Grateful, Octavia presses a kiss to the crown of his head, leaning into him for the space of a heartbeat. Then she turns and, grabbing her jacket and belt from a hook by the door, leaves as quickly as she can.

She makes her way down the corridor towards the exit of the crashed Ark. It’s still early - the middle of the night, really - but she can hear voices, the pounding of other people's feet, and the hum of life in the halls. That’s the thing about Arkadia these days: everyone’s up early and everyone’s up late.

Outside, the night air bites at her ears and slices through the layers of her clothes. She folds her arms against it, unperturbed. The cold isn’t her problem.

Her problem is that even outside Octavia still feels trapped. It’s not just her quarters that feel claustrophobic: it’s the whole damn camp. Everywhere she goes the Ark looms over her. Her whole life it’s been nothing but a prison and she hates it as much now as she did when she was five. She’d finally found freedom on the ground, and now the Ark followed her out of the sky to hold her captive once more. She wants nothing more than to run away with Lincoln and never look back. But he’s still officially a traitor to his people. So they’re stuck here, having to carve out a life in a prison.  

She needs to breathe, and she can’t handle another moment of captivity. She might not be able to leave permanently, but she can get outside the walls. Even if only for a little bit.

She makes her way around the eastern side of the square, to a section of Ark that had been reequipped and renamed the Engineering Bay. Dim light filters half-heartedly through a high window, looking out on Arkadia’s main yard.

Oh good, someone’s home.

Octavia swings back through the Ark and down the hall to the Engineering entrance. A weak desk lamp is on inside, cutting a sad silhouette across the room’s only occupant. Kyle Wick is sitting on a stool at a low work bench, gazing off into space, a screwdriver hanging loose in his hand. He looks like he might rather be asleep, and hell, Octavia can sympathize. All the same, when he spots her at the door he smiles, and if his smile looks a little tight, a little too stretched across the tense lines of his face, well, it’s still more than a lot of people can manage these days.

“What can I do for you this morning?” Wick sits up in his chair as Octavia approaches. His eyes seem to brighten in the presence of company.

“Hey, Wick.” She gives him a curt smile, but has no energy to spare on small talk. “Is there a salvage mission going out today?”

“Nope.”

Disappointment sinks in her chest. “When’s the next one?” She tries not to let the aggravation bleed into her voice.

“I think Abby’s sanctioned one in two days. Do you want on the team?”

“Yes,” Octavia replies quickly, jumping at the chance. “I’ll be there.” But it’s not enough.

She mutters a quick thanks to Wick and immediately leaves again. From the corner of her eye, she sees him deflate as she leaves, his shoulders hunching back down, but Octavia has no time or inclination to dwell on it. Every muscle in her body is still twitching to get out of here.

If she can’t get out on a full day mission, she’ll have to think of something else. There’s always the morning watch. They’re easy enough: walk the exterior perimeter of Arkadia, keep an eye out for danger. If she’s lucky she might even be able to get out on a scouting mission: map the terrain, bring back plants and herbs and whatever else the Medical Bay needs. Even an hour outside the walls is still a lot better than nothing.

Of course, she’s not actually _scheduled_ to take a morning watch, but that can be fixed.

She knocks on Kane’s office door, her knuckles thrumming against metal.

“Come in,” calls a hoarse voice from within.

Kane’s office is shoehorned into what used to be one of the Ark classrooms. A comparatively warm, comfortable room on the south side of camp with a large window looking onto the small patch of farmland at the edge of Arkadia, and a couch shoved into one corner. Octavia finds Kane standing in the middle of the room, inspecting a large drawing of the surrounding areas on a massive glass board that was once used to teach chemistry classes. Maybe she should be surprised that Kane’s also awake in the middle of the night, but she’s not.

“I’m reporting in for the morning scout,” Octavia declares.

“You’re not on today,” Kane replies without hesitating. He crosses to his desk to pick up a charted schedule. “It’s Miller and Monroe today.”

“Miller asked if I could take today for him.” The lie is quick and easy. She’s glad it’s Miller; it’ll be easy to convince him to give up his shift.   

Kane lifts an eyebrow. “Octavia, you went out yesterday. And the day before. And in seven of the last ten rotations this week. You expect me to believe Miller asked you to cover?”

Octavia doesn’t budge. “I’m going.”

She expects him to refuse, to try and send her away. Instead he turns to look her full in the face. She doesn’t know what he sees in her expression, but she tries to appear firm and neutral. As though she isn’t desperate to leave camp, as though this isn’t the only thing keeping her from losing her mind.

“Do I need to be worried about you?” Kane asks at last.

The question throws Octavia for a loop. She hadn’t considered that Kane gave her much thought at all. But, of course, he’s not really worried about her, not really. What he means is: _are you a liability?_

 _No more than anyone else_. “No,” she says. Then after a moment, she adds, “sir.”

With a sigh, Kane drops the schedule back onto his desk and amends it with a pen clipped to the side of the board. “I can’t deny you’re a better scout than any of my guards. When Monroe is ready you can go. I’ll have them open the gates for you.”

Instantly, Octavia feels ten pounds lighter. The relief on her face must be a little too obvious. Kane frowns, his brown eyes narrowing.

“Remember, Octavia. It’s just the perimeter this morning.”

“Yes.” Then, unable to resist, she pushes. “I was hoping I could take Helios. He needs the exercise. Lincoln says the horses can get dangerous if they’re left in the stables too long, and it means I can cover twice the distance on my own.”

Kane considers her for a moment, eyeing her up and down. She knows the rules: no one’s allowed outside the walls on their own. Except no one can keep up with her on horseback. So by default Octavia will inevitably end up leaving Monroe in the dust.

Even so, Kane eventually nods. “Okay, but you’re still not to go outside Section One, understand?” He indicates on the map in front of him, “You’re to be within walki range of Monroe and the Ark at all times, and you are to report back within the allotted hour. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Octavia says quickly, trying her best to hide her smile. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

**Raven, January 3rd 2150**

 

Raven taps the metal nut on the table in front of her and holds it under a large magnifying glass for inspection. She adjusts the light on her table, shining it onto the dull metal surface of the nut. No visible damage. Without looking up, she tosses it into the growing pile of re-usable spare nuts and bolts on one side of her workbench. On autopilot, she reaches for the next bolt, taps it, checks it, and throws it into the same pile. Then another: tap, check, sort. The monotony of the task is somehow soothing. Salvage and reuse. That was always the name of the game up on the Ark, and it turns out some things don’t change, even on Earth.

The sound of voices in the corridor outside echoes into the Mechanics Bay, disrupting Raven’s rhythm. She looks up at the door just in time to see Bellamy and Gina rounding the corner. Their heads are bent low together, speaking with an easy familiarity that Raven didn’t know they had with each other. When did those two become friends? She had no idea they even knew each other, let alone that they were… well, there’s no mistaking the look in Gina’s eye. Crap. Raven really hasn’t been paying attention if that’s started up without her noticing. She can’t hear what Gina’s saying as she bids Bellamy goodbye in the hallway, but her smile is affectionate and flirtatious as she presses a kiss to his cheek. A sinking feeling settles in Raven’s stomach. She quickly returns to her work as she hears Bellamy move away and Gina approach, sidling up to Raven’s workbench.

“Sinclair said you could use some help?” Gina asks, idly picking up one of the nuts from the ‘to-sort’ pile. She gives it a quick glance. “Which one’s your discard pile? The metal’s all warped on this one, no way it’s good for anything but a decorative necklace at this point.”

Raven looks up again and can’t resist returning Gina’s warm smile of greeting. “Over here,” she indicates with a flick of her wrist to a bucket on the floor, where a smaller mountain of scrap metal has been gradually accumulating.

Gina rests the nut on her index finger and with a flick of her thumb sends it soaring into a high arc. It falls neatly into the bucket with a resounding clang of metal on metal. Her grin of satisfaction is infectious, and Raven feels some of the pressure in her chest ease as she smiles at Gina.

“Who did you piss off to get this detail?” she asks as Gina picks up another piece of metal, twirling it between her fingers.

“I’m just a glutton for punishment, I guess.”

Raven nods towards an empty stool. “Make yourself at home. Misery loves company.”

Scraping the stool along the floor, Gina pulls up her seat and sits down across from Raven at the long table. Deftly, she drops the bolt she’d been fiddling with into the re-use pile and immediately picks up another for sorting. Raven watches her old friend for a moment. Gina slips one of the larger washers onto her thumb like an oversized ring, twirling it around her finger as she works.

It’s still weird, sometimes, having the others here. All these people back from the dead: Gina, Sinclair...Wick. She’d given up the idea of ever seeing Gina again when she watched the Exodus ship crash to Earth. Yet here she sits, twiddling her thumbs like they’re back in class together up on the Ark. It’s nice - really nice - to have her friend back. For a moment she considers opening up about everything. About Finn, about what happened to them while they were waiting for the rest of the Ark to arrive, about Wick and the pain in Raven’s hip that’s been keeping her awake for days. She considers asking for help.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she lets a comfortable silence fall between them. Regular taps and clangs of metal fill all the spaces between them, drowning out anything Raven might have been tempted to confide.

There is one thing she has to say, though. She would be a terrible friend if she _didn’t_ say something.

“So,” her voice cuts through the silence, “you and Bellamy, huh?”

She chances a glance up at Gina, but Gina just continues inspecting the bolt in her hand. Either she’s unaware of Raven’s eyes on her, or she’s unwilling to look at her.

“Mm-hmh,” Gina acknowledges, but doesn’t accept the invitation to volunteer any further information. She just tosses her bolt in the re-use pile and picks up another, as though there is nothing else to say on the matter of Bellamy Blake.

“You know he’s like ten different types of fucked up these days, yeah?” Raven presses. “I mean, he’s my friend and I’d trust him with my life, but he is seriously damaged.  The kind of damage that you can’t just fix.”  

Gina lets out a hollow laugh and finally stops what she’s doing to level Raven with a cool look. “Alright, we’re friends, and I know you’ve been going through a rough time, so I’m going to skip right past the part where that was way condescending, and jump straight to the part where I tell you that I have no illusions about what Bellamy’s been through, and I have no intention of trying to _fix_ him. We’ve all got baggage. I’ve got demons of my own to deal with. The last thing I want to do is to start tackling someone else’s.”

An awkward silence hangs in the air between them.

“Sorry,” Raven says after a moment. Gently, she picks up another piece of metal and inspects it. “I know you can handle yourself. I guess I just don’t want to see either of you get hurt.” She pauses, before continuing, “you know he has a match, right?”

“Stop,” Gina replies tightly, slamming the bolt in her hand onto the table. “If Bellamy wanted to talk to me about his match, he could do that. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s his choice. I’m not interested in gossiping about this with you.”

Stung, Raven drops it. This Gina is so different from the childhood friend she remembers: she’s more confident. Assured, somehow, of her place in this new world. Raven feels strangely jealous.

“You’re lucky,” she says at last. “To have someone.”

Gina lets out a sigh, the anger from a moment ago dissipating. “You want to know why I’m with Bellamy?” Her voice is softer now, the accusation in her tone gone. “I’m with him because, well… Look, I can’t sleep alone anymore.” She fixes her eyes on the floor. “The nightmares are easier to take if I’m not alone. He’s a good man and I care about him. But no, I don’t see _happily ever after_ in our future.”

She meets Raven’s eye. _Enough_ , Gina’s expression says firmly, _stop pushing_. Everyone, Raven realizes, is on a short fuse these days, no reason why Gina should be any different. Left with no other choice, Raven nods, forced to accept her friend’s explanation. They both return to their work in a chilly silence.

Gina’s words rattle around in Raven’s head. She wishes she could find that same peace of mind. But for her, after a while, having Wick by her side at night didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like pressure. She would spend her nights dreaming in colour, dreaming of Finn, and then awake in the dark with another man beside her. The guilt of it was much worse than waking alone.

Turns out she can’t really see _happily ever after_ in her future either.

The rhythmic clattering of metal on metal resumes. Slowly, the tension between them melts away again.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” Gina asks abruptly, thrusting a castle bolt under Raven’s nose.

Raven cups her hand around Gina’s, positioning the bolt into the light. “Yeah,” she says after a moment. “It’s a little dented, but no reason a determined mechanic and a bit of elbow grease couldn’t force it to do its job.”

“Those ridges aren’t warped?”

“Nope,” Raven assures her as she tosses it into the re-use pile. “They’re to prevent loosening. Won’t work without a clotter pin, but I’ve seen some of those around.”

Gina nods, clearly absorbing this and filing it away for future reference.

“I can’t believe you don’t recognize a castle nut on sight,” Raven says after a moment. “What would Mr Cardero say?” Gina hadn’t specialized in Zero G mechanics like Raven had, but they’d been through all the same basic mechanics classes.

Gina laughs in surprise. “I forgot all about Mr Cardero!”

“Well, you _abandoned us_ to specialize in design,” Raven throws her a gentle scowl. “I don’t think Cardero ever got over the shock. You were his favourite, you know.”

“That is such a lie,” Gina shoots back, flicking another bolt into the discard bucket. “He hated me. I was always doodling. He used to tell me off for wasting the charcoal.”

A memory floods back to Raven. “Didn’t you once go through an entire stick of the stuff on a blueprint for a _swimming pool_?”

“That swimming pool would have worked!”

A peal of true laughter escapes from Raven. It feels like the first time she’s laughed in months. “What ever happened to good old Cardero?”

“He died in the explosion with the rest of Beta section.” Gina’s voice is flat and matter of fact.

Raven’s laugh dies as quickly as it came. God. When did this become their life?

She can’t imagine it: the Ark, ripping apart. Space had been her home for so long, she’d forgotten to be afraid of it. She can’t fathom the terror of it, of watching the Ark fall away into open space, of slowly suffocating… she wouldn’t have believed that anyone could have survived, except for the living proof sitting across the table from her.

“How did you survive?” Raven asks quietly.

“No special reason.” Gina shrugs, her eyes glassy and distant. “I didn’t do anything smart or brave. I was just running late. I knew I was supposed to be home by 1800 for a family dinner. It was Unity Day, you know? So my parents wanted to do something special at home, but I just wanted to get this one bit of drafting finished in the design room, and I lost track of time. It was 18:05 by the time I made my way back. Then just as I reached the airlock at the end of D corridor, the hull breach alarm sounded. Before I could do anything, the doors all sealed. I stood there watching as Beta Station was ripped away from the rest of the Ark.”

“I’m sorry,” Raven mutters, knowing it’s inadequate, but at a loss for anything better to say.

“Don’t be. My story’s not that different from everybody else’s. If we let ourselves, we could drown in apologies and regret and self-pity. Best to focus on the here and now and anything that helps get us through the day.”

Raven nods again. She wishes she could take Gina’s advice, but she doesn’t know how. She can’t stop remembering the rip of hot metal as a bullet tore into her back. Or remembering the charred bodies as they explored the crashed remains of the Exodus ship. Or the cold plunge of darkness as her best friend was violently from life. Or the sharp tang of metal and blood in the air as she and Wick huddled together with dust in their lungs and ringing in their ears. Or the screams that ripped her throat apart as the Mountain Men drilled into her bones.  

Raven doesn’t know how to focus on the here and now, when the past has her in a vice grip.

 

* * *

 

**Marcus, January 3rd 2150**

 

Arkadia is already buzzing with activity by the time Kane finally emerges from his office. The sun has risen, bright and warm, at last melting the frost from the grass. The flood of colour stings his eyes after so long in his dim office.  Blinking, he takes a deep breath, basking in the life around him. Children are laughing. He watches as a group of kids, each no older than ten, run across his path, cutting towards the canteen. Some distance away, a pair of girls are pumping water from the well that Sinclair and Wick built last month. Out beyond the square, Mel is pacing along the top of Arkadia’s wall, standing guard. A gun is slung across her back, but she’s smiling, the sun beating down on her relaxed face.

Marcus can’t help smiling himself as he sets off to survey the camp. In moments like these, he could almost feel at home.

It’s taken awhile to get here. As a community, the adjustment to life on the ground hasn’t been easy. A new environment has meant new roles, new responsibilities, and new challenges that no Arker has faced in generations. It’s taken getting used to; in fact, they’re still getting used to it. Just last week he’d had to discipline one of the surviving Hundred for stealing a pair of boots from the communal store. All Kane had ever known was capital punishment, but down on the ground he’s finally found the ‘better way’ that he and Abby have been searching for all their lives. Floating is a thing of the past. The delinquent had been set to task laying down dirt for the new paths connecting the various buildings around camp, and he’d taken his punishment without complaint. As Kane follows this path now, he reflects that at least everyone is trying. It’s messy, and difficult, and they don’t have all the skills required for this new way of life, but they’re doing their best.

The path swings wide around the side of the Ark, but Kane veers right, down towards the southern tip of Arkadia. He comes to a stop in front of the low mesh-wire fence encasing the most important thing in camp: their new vegetable patch. He’s been coming here every day for weeks. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but he can’t help coming back, just to check on it. All totalled, across Arkadia, they still have engineers and chemists and doctors and mechanics, but no farmers. All winter there’s been nothing to eat but dried meat three meals a day and everyone in camp has been placing their hopes on these small tracts of farmland. Kane is not a farmer, but he used to tend the sacred tree his mother looked after, and he knows enough about plants to be worried. The earth had been cold and frozen by the time they were ready to till it. A group of volunteers had done their best, but Kane suspects it hasn’t been enough. For all their efforts, nothing at all is likely to grow for this year. It may be a very long time before they’re able to harvest enough of their own food to survive, and in the meantime his people will starve. According to Indra this has been a mild winter, so far, but he has no idea what they will do in the face of a cold snap. He dreads to think what will happen to them if their hunters start coming home without game. Since opening up the quarters inside the Ark, Kane has at least slept easier knowing that his people won’t freeze to death in the night, but he’s still worried. He’s always worried.

“How’s it looking today, sir?” Bellamy’s voice calls across the field.

Looking around, Marcus watches Bellamy approach from the other side of the Ark, his boots treading a sure path across the short grass. He comes to stand at Kane’s side, surveying the vegetable garden.

Is Bellamy also aware that they planted too late? Does he know that nothing is likely to grow in these beds for at least a season? Kane thinks about confiding in him, sharing his fears and the truth of the tough road that lies ahead of them. Bellamy has certainly proven himself to be a reliable ally and useful leader in the creation of their new society. It’s tempting, to have a confidant. Bellamy could be for Kane what Kane had once been for Jaha. A second in command, maybe even a friend. He resists the urge, biting down on the inside of his cheek instead. No one needs extra burdens; it’s best to keep everyone else focused on the task at hand. He doesn’t want to worry his people.  

“Too early to tell,” Kane evades instead.

Bellamy seems to clock this for the refusal that it is. His eyes look down again at the patch of churned earth at their feet. One look at the grim, determined expression on his face and Kane is sure that Bellamy knows the truth. That Arkadia can’t possibly survive off of anything that might sprout from this sorry little garden.

“Have you seen Octavia this morning?” Bellamy asks, his eyes finally rising from the farm to look out at the southern wall.

Kane nods, though Bellamy isn’t looking at him. “She’s on the morning patrol.”

“She wasn’t scheduled for today.”

Kane decides not to comment on the fact that Bellamy has memorized Octavia’s shift schedule. “Not originally, no,” he agrees. “She took Miller’s shift this morning.”

“That means she’ll have been on patrol every morning this week. We have a rotation for a reason.” The anxiety in Bellamy’s voice is as predictable as it is worrying. “It’s not good to always have the same pair of eyes on patrol. She’s going to exhaust herself and then she could miss something.”  His fists curl around the wire fence, bending it under his hands.

When he replies, Kane keeps his voice calm and level, his best attempt at defusing Bellamy’s mood. “She’s only been on the morning rotation, so she’s had plenty of rest time, and she’s had different partners to keep a fresh perspective. Besides, it’s Octavia,” Kane says, attempting to lighten the tone, “when she’s decided she wants something, she finds a way to get it.”

A coldness passes over Bellamy’s expression. “There are plenty of things that my sister wanted that she never got, sir.”

 _Of course_ , Kane scolds himself. That was a thoughtless thing to say. It’s so easy to forget who the Blakes are, who they were six months ago. It’s so easy to forget who _he_ had been six months ago. Their time on the Ark sometimes feels like another lifetime, like a story from someone else’s life. _Maybe_ , Kane thinks sadly, as he takes in the dark pain suddenly revealed in this boy’s eyes, _not everyone has such an easy time forgetting._

Kane nods with sudden discomfort. “Of course,” he mumbles, “I… well, she should be reporting back anytime now.”

He looks away, back to the barren garden in front of him.

Bellamy takes this as his dismissal and nods, his voice curt. “Thank you, sir.” And with that he turns to walk off in the direction of the main gate.

Kane looks around to watch him go. They’re all trying, but there is still so much pain in this camp, sometimes it’s hard to know where to begin.

 

* * *

 

**Harper, January 3rd 2150**

 

Sweat drips down Harper’s face as she runs, feet pounding against the grassy earth. She loses herself in the run as she completes her third lap around the perimeter of the camp, along the inside of Arkadia’s new walls. The electric hum of the fence fills the air, the midday sun lighting the world around her in the same grey hues it always has. The day is cold, her breath puffing visibly in front of her, but her muscles are hot. The burn of exertion is sharp and painful, and it’s _good_. A pain she can relish. She is in control of this pain, in control of her body, and with every passing day she feels herself getting stronger.

In the Mountain she’d been made to feel weak, weaker than she ever imagined she could. They tried to drill the life right out of her, but she’s still here - still alive - and she refuses to let that pain control her life. She’s promised herself she will not let anyone take away her control again.

A barrel of rainwater has been jammed against the outside wall of the stables, positioned to catch the runoff from the roof. The sight is too tempting to resist. Harper stops to splash some water on her face and drink from her cupped hands. The musty, warm smell of the stables fills her lungs as she leans over the barrell, catching her breath. She looks through the breaks in the slatted wall of the stables, hoping to catch a glimpse of the horses. Several of the stalls are empty, but Harper watches as one of the huge dark stallions chews on some hay. She still can’t quite believe that they actually have stables, and real live _horses_. One more thing she never could have imagined a year ago. The horses still make her a little nervous. At first no one had been sure what to do with them, but with Lincoln’s guidance and Octavia’s zeal, everyone’s slowly been adjusting to their presence in the camp.

The unmistakable sound of footsteps and clipping hooves draws Harper’s attention away from the stallion to the other side of the stables. Harper can see Octavia approaching through the barn door, leading her horse on a short lead of coarse rope, directing the animal inside. Harper notices with a spark of surprise that Octavia’s limping a little as she ushers the horse into his empty stall. There is a long gash running down the side of Octavia’s right arm, grey blood glistening against her skin.

“You’re late!” Bellamy shouts suddenly.

Harper flinches on instinct, assuming he’s yelling at her, but as she watches, Bellamy strides into view through the open barn door. Oblivious to Harper’s position behind the stables wall, his ire is entirely directed towards Octavia. He marches up to her, his eyes flashing.

“These check-in times are important Octavia, you can’t just wander off-”

“I know!” Octavia snaps back, talking over him, “and I didn’t wander off, Helios got spooked and threw me, so I had to walk back with him.” Bellamy registers this and falls silent, taking in her injuries. Concern clouds his expression, but before he can speak again, Octavia heads him off at the pass.

“I’m _fine_.” She raises a hand as though to physically fend off his worry. “It’s not a big deal, horses get spooked, it happens. There was a snake or something that crossed our path.”  

From their position in the corner stall, Harper can still clearly see them both through the breaks in the metal sheeting that makes up the piecemeal wall. She’d meant to come around the corner and greet them, but the irritation in both of their voices makes her stop. The barely-concealed frustration on both sides screams ‘sibling moment’, and Harper has no desire to get between that.  

Octavia turns away from Bellamy, moving to unhook Helios’ saddle and pat him down. As she heaves the heavy tack off Helios’ back, Harper notices the cut on her arm start bleeding again, dark grey blood leaving a trail down Octavia’s elbow.

“O, your blood.” Bellamy’s voice is shaking.

“I told you, it’s nothing.” Octavia continues to remove Helios’ bridle. “I fell into a bush, but it’s not deep. I promise-”

“No, Octavia! Your _blood_ , it- it’s red.”

Octavia stops dead, her hand arrested midway down Helios’ back. She looks over at her brother.

He doesn’t look good. Even from her vantage point, Harper can tell he’s a mess. Pupils blown wide, his eyes are frantically trying to look at everything in sight.

“We- we have to go,” he stutters. “She’s here. I have to find her. I _have_ to.” A manic energy has taken possession of Bellamy. It’s almost frightening, a side of him that Harper’s never seen before. He’s halfway out the door when Octavia catches up to him and grabs him by the shoulders.

“Bellamy, stop.”

“I have to go! She’s here-”

“No. She isn’t.” Her words are hard and firm and they strike Bellamy silent.  

“Last you saw it, how wide was your radius? Especially for blood.”

Bellamy doesn’t respond. Harper can still see him from where she’s standing, rooted to the spot. She holds herself as still as a statue, praying she won’t be discovered eavesdropping on what has suddenly become a very private moment.

Octavia presses on with her point. “It’s like ten miles at least, isn’t it?”

“Twenty,” Bellamy mutters reluctantly, but his eyes don’t stop darting between everything in sight.

“If she wanted to be here, then she would be, but she doesn’t.” Octavia’s words are harsh; they land on Bellamy like a blow and he seems to crumple under the weight of them. All of the fight goes out of him and for a terrible moment he looks nothing like the brave leader Harper has always known him to be, but like a little boy: tired and lonely, with dirt on his knees.

“Listen,” Octavia’s voice has softened a little, but the edge is still there, “If you do see any other colour, we can track her with that. You say the word, I’ll come with you, but blood ranges are huge, and she probably doesn’t even realize she’s wandered into range. So for now, nothing has changed.”

Bellamy nods as he slowly looks up. When Harper sees his face again, his expression is cold and closed off, such a far cry from the desperate boy she saw a moment ago.  

Harper stays in her accidental hiding spot until she hears both pairs of Blake footsteps take them away in different directions. She can’t get the dual images of Bellamy out of her head. No one is doing what might be called _well_ these days, but Harper has always thought - just assumed, really - that Bellamy was okay. Of course he isn’t, though. Everyone gives Jasper and Raven a wide berth, knowing that they’ve just lost their matches and are liable to take their grief out on any passerby. They’re given a lot of allowances around camp, but it’s easy to forget that Bellamy’s also just lost his match. In a way it might be worse for him, to know that his match is out there somewhere, but just doesn’t want to be found.

What kind of soulmate avoids their own match?

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, January 3rd 2150**

 

Clarke’s legs are going numb beneath her, shooting pins and needles from her knees to her ankles. She holds position, unwilling to risk disturbing the brush she’s using as cover. Silent and still, she watches as a rabbit emerges into the clearing. With agonizing caution, the creature sniffs its way towards her trap. _Come on_ , Clarke urges it silently, _just a little closer..._

Unbidden, a memory rushes through Clarke’s mind. Earth Skills class, years ago and a world away, when she was first shown how to make animal traps. At the time, everyone had laughed and complained about the day they had spent tying knots and balancing sticks to make the trigger system. It had been a joke to them. Even Clarke had thought it was interesting only in an academic, remote sort of way. None of them could have possibly imagined a world in which this would be useful, and even if they could, they all scoffed that this ancient and primitive method could even work. Their teacher, Pike, had always been patient with their jokes and their disbelief. He had maintained throughout that this could and would work, and that one day this knowledge, passed down through generations, would save lives. There had been something in the passionate way he always spoke about the future, Clarke couldn’t help but listen.

 _Thwak_. The trap releases and the loop of rope tightens around the poor rabbit’s neck. Clarke rises from her hiding place and edges towards the squirming animal, her knife in hand. Pike had been right. It worked.     

Back in that classroom, she remembered Fox asking if they would really have to kill cute animals to survive on Earth, wouldn’t there be other ways? The image of Fox’s face, fourteen and worried for the life of a rabbit, morphs into the image of her broken body, drained of blood and marrow, tossed away underneath the Mountain. Clarke pushes the image from her mind. She takes hold of the rabbit with her spare hand. Swift and sure, she slides her knife in one quick movement along the rabbit’s throat. _No Fox_ , she thinks, _there won’t be any other way_.  

Clarke looks down at the warm blood now coursing over her left hand and for a moment she can’t breathe. _It’s red_. Her breath is coming in short and frantic gasps now as she drops the rabbit and tries to wipe her hands on the grey grass. She is transported at the sight of it. It’s crimson Grounder blood, spraying from the neck of the man she cut, when everything else had been grey; it’s Mountain Man blood, dripping through the President’s crisp white shirt after she shot him; it’s Finn’s blood, staining her hands.

She can’t do this. Grabbing the rabbit roughly with one hand, she leaps up and starts running. She must have traveled farther west than usual. She heads east now and doesn’t stop running until the red stains on her skin have turned to grey. Only then can she breathe normally again. She welcomes the grey all around her. She has no memories tied to colour that she’d like to remember.   

 

* * *

 

**Monty, January 3rd 2150**

 

Monty is hiding.

Sitting at one end of the Mechanics Bay, head resting in his hands, he pours over all the maps they have of the surrounding area. If anyone were to ask, he’s definitely not hiding. He’s working. Important work. Officially, he’s charting the surrounding area to look for farmable land. Unofficially, he’s staring at papers, trying to find something - _anything_ \- even remotely useful.

There are some nearby Grounder villages that have very successful farms, so this has to be a good sign. If the Grounders can do it, there must be a place for them to farm too. They really don’t have a choice, they _have_ to find farm land. If they have to keep living off dried meat, camp morale will sink even lower than it already has. Plus the fact that Monty might choose to starve to death before he chokes down more month-old mutant squirrel jerky. He misses the vegetable stew they had on the Ark. He misses the greenhouses in Farm station, and the new soup recipes his parents would invent for the mess. He misses his parents. They would have been able to solve the puzzle, to find the untilled land that’s lying in stark black lines on the table in front of Monty’s face. There’s a solution here, he knows there is, but Monty is not the one to find it. This was always their world, not his. Monty’s software, electronics, even chemistry in a pinch, but he’s no good with living things. His parents could see it. Literally _see_ it. They would know at a glance whether a vegetable was ripe for harvest. From the shade of the leaves or the darkness of the bulb or whatever it was that colour gives to people. Farming had always been his parents’ thing.

Or Jasper’s.

Even without colour Jasper had been a natural at this, plants and herbs. He would smell or touch or hold it under light. Jasper had been so good that Monty never really bothered to study it himself. At the time it had seemed like the perfect division of labour. By rights it should be Jasper sitting here with these maps. Well, if he’s going to wish for Jasper’s help, Monty might as well be wishing for his parents. Neither are going to happen. It’s just him, the only (sober) surviving member of Farm station. If he doesn’t come up with something quick, they’re all going to be eating jerky for the rest of their lives.

So he stares at the stupid maps, trying to make sense out of topography and mountain ranges and rivers.

At the other end of the Mechanics Bay, Raven is clattering around, sorting junk into piles of ‘junk’ and ‘even more junk than the other junk’. Tedious work. Monty’s glad no one’s asked him to help yet. It’s probably because he looks so busy surrounded by all these maps and information that he can’t make heads or tails of. When he’d arrived, Gina had been sitting with Raven, helping her sift through the mountain of garbage. She left a while ago. Probably to lunch in the mess hall, with everyone else that isn’t hiding. Raven’s still here though. She’s probably hiding too.

From down the hall, Monty hears the telltale stomp of footsteps coming towards them.

Instantly, his muscles tense. Like a mouse trapped in a cage. The whole point of hiding is so that no one finds you. In this case ‘no one’ might actually be a specific _someone._ A brave, funny, and entirely too nice someone. A Miller-shaped someone. Monty doesn’t want to think about Miller. It’s precisely why he’s hiding down here with the maps he hates in the first place. He doesn’t want to think about the way that even looking at Miller sends Monty into a tailspin these days. Doesn’t want to think about the whoosh of affection or the swell of anxiety in his chest. Doesn’t want to think about the way Miller looks at him - like he’s special and important. Miller looks at him like he’s a _good person_ , and not like he’s the guy who murdered his best friend’s match. He doesn’t deserve to be looked at the way Miller looks at him, and if a part of him craves the absolution that Miller is offering, another part of him is running scared.

At the moment, the running scared part of his brain is winning in a landslide. Because if being someone’s match gives you carte blanche - a free pass for unconditional love - Monty hates what that could do to someone. He wants no part of it. He is, when push comes to shove, more than a little terrified of being someone’s match.

As the stomping grows louder, Monty cuts his gaze up to the door.

It’s Wick, not Miller, who enters with a small plate of jerky.

Monty exhales a sigh of relief. Wick! Wick’s fine. Wick’s nice in a way that doesn’t fill Monty with guilt and grief.

“I heard you got stuck on sorting salvage duty,” Wick announces in greeting, loping over to Raven’s table. He grins good-naturedly. “Thought you might be hungry.” He holds out the plate of jerky like it’s freshly baked bread, not over-salted rodent.

“I’m not hungry.” Raven’s voice is tight and clipped. “If I’d wanted food I would have gone to the mess for lunch myself.”   

It’s clear that Wick is disappointed by his welcome, but he takes it in stride. He spots Monty and looks at him like a man at sea looks at a life raft. “Alright, well I’m sure there are plenty of other hard workers who missed lunch and would love my special delivery,” Wick says, sauntering from Raven’s table to Monty’s.  

Raven, Monty can’t help noticing, hasn’t even looked up from the screw she’s turning over in her fingers. If Wick is trying to get her attention, Raven’s clearly determined that he should fail.

“What do you say Mont-o?” Wick continues, boldly ignoring his chilly reception. “You look hard at work. Can’t have our brightest minds going hungry.”

The idea of eating any more of the shrivelled up meat on the plate makes Monty’s stomach turn, but he can’t leave poor Wick hanging. So, with a herculean effort, he accepts the plate from Wick’s outstretched hand.

“Maybe I should start a food delivery service down here, I think it could be a real hit.” Wick crosses back to Raven’s table, like he’s tied to an elastic band and she’s holding the other end.

Monty watches as Raven refuses to look back up at Wick, her attention still focused hard on the bolt in her hand. It seems to be taking her a long time to sort this one.

If he’s honest, Monty’s a little surprised by how determined Raven is to ignore Wick. Sure, she hasn’t been a bundle of joy to be around since… ever, really… but she was joking and chatting with Gina earlier, and he always thought she and Wick had a kind of understanding. For as long as he’s known them, there’s been an air of playful disdain between them, but it always seemed to be covering up for a genuine affection they shared. Something’s changed, but Monty’s at a loss to guess what Wick could have done to piss her off so badly.

Wick is rambling about how as soon as they get the ingredients down here to make pizza, he’s going to give up this Engineering lark and focus on his real calling of delivering pizza. He leans over the table and absentmindedly picks a couple of odd bolts out of the pile.

After a second Raven registers what he’s doing and finally looks up at him.

“What are you doing?” Her voice is cold and accusatory.

“I-” Wick falters, “I just thought you would want copper separate.” His voice is still light, but it’s clear he knows his mistake as soon as it happened.

For Monty, the meaning of this clicks instantly. _Oh_. Well that would explain it, and actually, he’s surprised he didn’t guess a long time ago. He feels a horrible pang of sympathy for them both.   

As Monty has been processing this particular revelation, the seconds have hung in the air between Wick and Raven. Riveted, Monty wonders if Raven will rage and scream. The cold precision with which she replies is somehow much worse.

“I’ll test and sort the metal type later, thanks. I don’t need your help.”

The dismissal in her tone is chilling, and Monty feels horrible as he watches Wick’s face crumble. After a moment of hesitation, Wick leaves without a further word.

After he’s gone, Raven catches Monty staring and glares at him. There is a challenge in her eye, as though daring Monty to comment. For a second Monty wants to talk to her, to tell her everything. Because he understands. Understands what it is to be the recipient of a one-sided match. He knows how intimidating and overwhelming that can be, and he has so many questions he’d love answers to. Except he knows that Raven doesn’t have those answers either, and after the way she shut down Wick, he doesn’t think a heart-to-heart about matches is high on her to-do list right now.

So instead, he just gives her a weak smile. To show, if nothing else, that he supports her and doesn’t judge her choices. She doesn’t return it, and they both look back down at their work.

As he stares blankly at the map in front of him his thoughts drift back to Miller. Everywhere he looks around camp, Monty finds the pieces of people who have been broken by their matches.

Rapid footsteps echo down the hall again. Monty doesn’t even have time to worry about who it is before Monroe is poking her head around the door.

“There you are!” she exclaims in relief, spotting Monty. “You need to come to the common room quick. Jasper is screaming for you and he says he won’t shut up until you show yourself.”

Fuck. So much for hiding.

Monty gets up, resigned to his fate.

“How much has he had to drink?” he asks Monroe as he follows her out of the safety of the Mechanics Bay.

“More than usual.”

He wishes he’d never built that stupid still. Part of him knows that it’s not the real problem, and if he hadn’t done it then someone else would have by now, probably sooner rather than later. Apparently the human race can survive on Earth with very little, but alcohol is a necessity.

Monty can hear Jasper yelling as they enter the common room.

At first it’s hard to make out what’s going on. A heaving mess of people are blocking the doorway and circling around the edges of the room. Then, as the crowd parts, Jasper sees Monty.

“YOU.” His voice is so full of malice and hate. “I’ve been looking for you.” Jasper’s words slur at the edges, spilling over themselves.

Stumbling, Jasper starts to make his way towards Monty. Out of nowhere, Miller side-steps to block his path. He presses a hand to Jasper’s shoulder, dipping to keep Jasper’s eyes on him instead of on Monty.  

“Okay Jasper, Monty’s here now.” Miller says, calm and steady. It’s clear he must have been trying to contain this situation for a while now. “That’s what you wanted, right? Now we can all talk, but let’s maybe sit down first, yeah?”

Yet another thing Monty can feel guilty about. While he’s been hiding, he’s left it up to Miller to look after Jasper. Jasper, who by all rights should be Monty’s responsibility. Jasper, who is currently trying to physically get past Miller. All sharp elbows and staggering, drunken flailing, he rails against Miller’s hold on his shoulders.

“Hey, man,” Miller is saying, “calm down, okay? Let’s just sit down -”

For all the effect it’s having, Miller might as well have been speaking Trigedasleng.   

Miller is clearly unwilling to hurt Jasper. He just holds firm, his fingers digging into Jasper’s shoulders, acting as a physical block between Jasper and Monty.

“Get out of my way, Miller!”

“Jasper, come on man, you don’t want to do something you’ll regret.”

The punch comes out of nowhere. All of Jasper’s flailing energy suddenly concentrated into a single, well-placed right hook, directly into Miller’s eye. Taken by surprise, Miller falls back, and while he’s quick to get up, he doesn’t move to return the hit.

The onslaught of violence seems to have been what the guards were waiting for. Dave Miller falls on Jasper immediately, pulling him off his son and dragging Jasper away in the other direction. Abby and Kane are there, materializing from one side of the room. Abby speaks in a low voice to Dave and the other guards.

For his part, Monty is frozen, fixed in his position by the doorway.

Miller looks around and meets his eye. His cheek is bleeding slightly, already a little puffy. _I did that_ , Monty can’t help thinking. _Nathan placed himself between me and danger and got himself hurt as a result._

Raven’s words to Wick echo in his head. _I don’t need your help_. He bites them back, unwilling to hurt Nathan that way.

Instead, feeling vaguely nauseous, Monty smiles and nods his thanks. Miller’s eyes brighten as he returns his smile. 

 

* * *

 

**Harper, January 3rd 2150**

 

Harper sits in the mess hall, gnawing absentmindedly on some dried meat. She’s not sure what animal it’s actually from. She’s learned it’s usually best not to ask too many questions and just be thankful that there is food to go around at all.

A metal tray hits the table with a clatter as Miller drops down into the seat across from her. She looks up and nearly drops her mystery meat. His left cheek is dark, almost black, against his deep grey skin and swollen up to twice its normal size.

“What the hell happened to your face?!”

“Hello to you too,” Miller replies dryly.

“Did you get into a fight?”

Miller gives her a one-shouldered shrug. “Jasper felt like punching someone, and my face was nearby. I guess I was just in the right place at the right time.” He tries to smile, but it quickly turns to a wince.

“Shit. Does it hurt?”

“I’ve had worse.”

Harper folds her arms across her chest. That’s not exactly encouraging. This does not feel like what they spent all that time in the Mountain fighting for. To work together for so long, to trust each other so much, for it to come to this?

“How much longer are we going to let him get away with doing whatever he wants?”

“I don’t know.” Miller’s face falls. “Losing his match like that. He’s pretty miserable.”

Harper tosses her hair over one shoulder, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah, well there’s plenty of misery to go around in this camp. Loss isn’t exclusive to people with matches.” The words come out more bitter than she expected and she immediately regrets it when she sees the apologetic look on Miller’s face.

“I know that,” he concedes quickly. A silence falls between them as Miller turns his attention to the food in front of him.

Harper eyes him for a moment. He looks different. Miller has always been quiet, even a little aloof. But back in the Mountain, in between the terror and the violence, Miller had always maintained a certain calm, a sense of peace. Which is weird, considering they had been fighting tooth and nail for their survival. Since the moment they touched down on Earth, this is by far the most peaceful stretch of time any of them have experienced. So why, then, does Miller look like something’s eating him up from the inside?

Unsure how to help, Harper starts gently. “How are you doing these days?”

His eyes look up at her sharply, questioning. “Fine.”

She tries another tactic.

“Was it Monty that Jasper was going after when he hit you instead?”

It’s a hunch she’s been working on. She sees the way Miller tracks Monty’s movements every time he’s in a room. The way his smiles come a little easier when Monty’s with them. The way his eyes sometimes dart up to the door right _before_ Monty walks in.

Miller meets her eye again, suspicious this time. He doesn’t confirm her guess, but he doesn’t refute it either. She decides to press on.

“What’s going on with you two?” She tries to keep her tone light and casual, but it still comes out pretty pointed.

“What do you mean?” he asks, but before she can clarify he goes on, “nothing.”

“That’s cute how you think you can still lie to me.” She decides to just go for it. “Are you in love with him?”

Miller blinks at her, clearly surprised by the question, but not insulted. He simply checks over both shoulders, leans over the table, and says in a low voice. “He’s my match.”

His words hit Harper low in her stomach. “Oh,” she manages. Her throat feels tight.

She’d been expecting this, but it still comes as a shock. A feeling like jealousy, but isn’t, sinks through her. She doesn’t know where it’s coming from. She isn’t jealous. She doesn’t want Miller, or hold his match against him, but she can’t help the sudden loneliness that swamps her, weighing her down like water-logged clothing.

Fighting it, she gives him the best smile she can muster. “So that’s a yes then? You must.” She tries to laugh off the sudden awkwardness she feels.

“It’s not that simple,” Miller replies, oblivious to the emotions at war in Harper’s blood. “I mean, yes, I care about him - maybe more than anyone else on this whole planet, but matches are complicated. Especially when they’re one-sided, but I think probably in all cases. I’ve been in love before, and that felt… different.” He looks up at her.

“Yeah,” she agrees, even though she really has no idea what Miller is talking about. She’s not even sure she’s ever been in love, let alone having a _match_ , and Miller is looking at her with massive, heart wrenching puppy-dog eyes. He’s lonely, and sad, and did he say his match was one-sided? It’s clearly been eating him up, and Harper should sit with him and let him talk about this. She should stay, she knows. She should be a good friend, she should listen to him talk about Monty, and try to understand what he’s going through. But she can’t. It’s too much.

She can’t sit still any longer. “Uh, listen, I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” She knows her voice is shaking as she pushes herself up from the table. “I think I’m gonna get another run in before curfew.”

“Harper…” Miller looks hurt, as though he’s worried he’s offended her.

“It’s cool,” Harper assures him, her smile growing more genuine by degrees. “Sorry. I’ll see you later?” _Please let me go_. Harper needs to run, needs to feel the familiar, welcome strain in her muscles. Needs to drown out questions about love and matches and fate. And why everyone except her seems to have them.

Miller must see the frayed edges of her control, must recognize that Harper is upset. “Later,” he promises. Before he goes, he reaches out and gently places a warm hand on her forearm. Maybe he understands what’s bothering her even better than she does when he tells her, his voice low and sincere: “Harper, love isn’t exclusive to matches either.”

Harper nods. Despite the look of affection on Miller’s face, and the loneliness still squeezing at Harper’s chest, she flees the Mess as fast as she can.

Miller is right, she reflects as she begins to beat the familiar path around the perimeter of camp. Already the exercise is calming her, bringing the world into better focus. She knows that colour-matches don’t have a moratorium on love, but it’s easy to forget, and nice to hear. She has love in her life. She has Monty and Miller and Monroe and Bellamy and Jasper (on a good day). She has no need of colour.

 

* * *

 

**Abby, January 3rd 2150**

 

Night falls early in winter. The shifts of the earth from month to month, the loss of light, the unpredictable snaps of cold, the occasional breaks, when the sun beats down hot and hard for an hour or a day. The lawless unpredictability of the natural world. It’s disorienting in a way Abby couldn’t have anticipated.

Despite the warmth earlier in the day, tonight is especially cold. A sharp wind cuts through the camp like knives. On nights like this, Abby knows she won’t be able to sleep. How can she sleep, when Clarke is out there somewhere? In the frozen night, alone.

Instead, when she’s finally seen out the last of her patients of the night, Abby finds herself in the canteen. She has no idea what time it is, but she walks up to the bar. Sitting alone, staring into a half-empty cup of moonshine, is Wick.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks him, sitting down on the stool at his side.

Wick shakes his head, taking a gulp of moonshine. “I’ve never been much of a sleeper,” he mutters. “Just got too much important stuff to do, Chancellor.”

Abby looks up and over at Wick’s profile.

“Wick,” she says abruptly, in no mood for pretence. “There are 450 people in this camp, and every single one of them has some form of PTSD.”

Wick looks up sharply at this. He seems about to protest. _That’s not me_ , or _I’m fine_ , or _It’s nothing_. Abby’s heard every argument in the book. She keeps talking before he can say any of them.

“They come to me looking for something that can help. A quick fix, anything that can make the days less painful and the nights more manageable, but I can’t help them. The best I can do is give them a mild sedative so they can at least get some sleep for a little while without being woken by night terrors every few hours. It’s not a long term solution. For starters, I’m running out of supplies, and even if I wasn’t it’s still not enough for them. Nevermind the fact that if I’m not careful we’ll have a camp full of drug addicts on our hands.”

“So what do you prescribe then, Doc?” Wick’s returned to studying the contents of his drink. His shoulders remain hunched and tense.

“Time,” Abby says, wishing she had a better answer, “and talking to each other. The only way any of us are getting through this is together-” The last word catches in her throat as she thinks again of Clarke, out there, somewhere, on her own.

She looks back over at Wick to see his eyes shining bright with tears. Raven doesn’t want help either. She, like Clarke, believes the pain is easier to bear on her own.

“ _Together_ is a lot easier said than done.” Wick’s voice is hoarse as he continues to look away.

“Yes. It is.” Abby agrees, keeping her eyes straight ahead to give him his privacy as he scrapes his sleeve over his eyes.

They sit for a moment, listening to the sound of the dark and restless camp around them.

“What about you then, Doc? When was the last time you got some sleep?”

Abby instinctively starts to say _I’m fine_. The lie is easy and on the tip of her tongue. She’s been saying it constantly for weeks now to everyone who asks. This time, she stops herself. “I honestly don’t remember,” she responds instead.

“Would you sleep if I offered to watch over things here for a while?”

Abby considers this for a moment. “I’m honestly not sure, but I can try.”

“That’s all any of us can really do, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.”

Abby puts a hand reassuringly on Wick’s shoulder for support as she levers herself up and makes her way out of the bar. She thinks of her quarters. Of Marcus waiting for her, of the way the colours grow brighter as she approaches, like he’s lighting the way back for her. Maybe she _is_ tired. Maybe she’ll be able to get to sleep this time.

“Thanks Doc,” Wick calls to her as she sidles back out of the bar.

 _For what_? Abby wants to ask. As far as she can tell she’s still just as much at a loss as any of them.     

 

* * *

 


	2. February 10th 2150: Revised History Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, welcome to our version of season 3!
> 
> Right away, you'll notice our version of the ALIE story is different, and ties more into the soulmate colour-match part of our universe - the rest is within canon (for now).

**Murphy, February 10th 2150**

 

Well shit. And Murphy thought the Sky Box had been bad. It’s a shame he’s such a goddamn coward or he would have put a bullet in his brain weeks ago.

As it turns out, there’s not a lot to do, trapped in a lighthouse for months on end. So Murphy has learned a lot, about shit he didn’t even know to be afraid of until now. About Alie and the experiments performed on her and the drug she developed before the war, and the war itself. The events that led to the actual damn apocalypse. Turned out someone had the presence of mind to document the end of the world and leave all the video files stored on a solar-powered computer in a lighthouse-turned-fortress-turned-solitary-confinement for one seriously pissed off former delinquent. Convenient, that.

Sometimes, in his more truly miserable moments, Murphy imagines that Emori is with him. That instead of abandoning him in a landmine-infested desert with a goddamn crazy person, she had brought him along with her and her brother. Something of a let down, as matches went. Still, she’d tried to help him find the so-called ‘city of light’, and he had no way of knowing whether she’d felt what he did. Had she seen the world tilt on its axis the moment they met? Whether she did or not, Murphy sure as hell had. And he can’t help thinking that being trapped in a tower like a damn fairytale princess would be a lot more fun if he had company. Hers, specifically. He imagines that she’s with him, perched loftily on the arm of the couch, smirking at him. He imagines he’s telling her a story, based on what he’s pieced together from the lighthouse’s library of incriminating video files.  

The story of the end of the world goes something like this:

Once upon a time, there was a young woman called Alie Simpson. Alie was the head of a group of activists called the City of Light. The CoL had strong ties to a handful of major governments and access to untold amounts of scientific funding. Their mandate, they claimed, was to make the world a more equal place. To remove the imbalance between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’.  Specifically? To bring colour to the matchless. _Why should a quirk of biology dictate who sees colour and who doesn’t?_ cried Alie and her people. _Why shouldn’t everyone have equal and full access to the spectrum of light available to us?_ Noble mission, right? Apart from the part where it didn’t work, but I’ll get to that. First of all, I should explain something about our girl Alie Simpson. Alie, like any good evil genius, used to experiment on herself. Eventually, through science (and maybe a bit of witchcraft, depending on how you define it) she found a way to – get this! – cure ageing. Right?! Told you. Actual evil genius, Alie Simpson.

Murphy imagines Emori’s sceptical quirk of an eyebrow. _Cure ageing? I think you’ve hit the scotch a bit too hard there, Murphs._

In fairness, Murphy _is_ about neck-deep in the last bottle of scotch this place has to offer, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Ageing is just a biological process, it happens for identifiable _reasons_ , and somehow Alie found a way to stop the process in its tracks. Alie was in her sixties around the time the world ended, but didn’t look a day over thirty. It seems to Murphy that the curing ageing thing was way more exciting than the fixing colour-blindness thing, but according to Alie curing ageing was expensive and ‘not suitable for widespread release to the populous’. Whatever the fuck that meant.

Anyway, with me so far, Emori? Crazy immortal person has discovered a drug that cures colour-blindness through, like, science or some shit. Lo and behold, the governments of the world, in their eminent fucking wisdom, let the drug loose on the populous, and hey, what do you know, it works! Except, only sort of. This so-called cure isn’t a cure. It’s a drug. As in, it _wears off_ unless you keep taking it. Plus, along with the colour, there were some… unexpected side effects. See colour-matches aren’t random, and they aren’t just about colour. They’re about connection, and finding strength in another person. About support and partnership and shared purpose, and yeah, sometimes even love.

So what happens when you try and fake colour-matches with a drug? Well, surprise surprise, it doesn’t fucking work. Instead, anyone who took it just ended up like some kind of shell. Blissed out, with the first hit, hallucinating and babbling about the joys of the City of Light. But the tradeoff is that everything about them, their emotions, their personality, would just kind of fade away. Until they were just kind of… existing, but not really alive. Didn’t matter to Alie, she was relentless, said she was building a better world. Not sure when in the process she lost her mind, but girl definitely went crazy at some point, because she started introducing it into the population without their consent. She released it into the atmosphere, forcing even the matched to take the drug.

Still, however bad it is when people _stay_ on the drug, it’s nothing compared to what happens when they try to withdraw from that garbage. Coming off the drug is the real killer. It’s like all the emotions that had been held at bay or suppressed or whatever by the drug come back all at once. Like being hit by a wrecking ball of emotional come-down. Which, people being people, almost always ended up manifesting in gut-busting rage. Not your normal kind of rage. This was the kind of rage that could topple empires. Or, say, the kind of rage that could start a global nuclear war. Yeah. That kind of rage. They left this bit out of Earth-history class, huh?

So yeah. They made a drug to save the world, only they didn’t make enough of it, or couldn’t keep making it fast enough, to keep the whole population high as kites. To say the come-down was a bitch doesn’t quite do justice to the apocalypse-y nature of the situation.

There you have it, E. Our world ended with a bang and an agonized scream. What about Alie, crazy-lady at the centre of all this? Who the hell knows. Probably she died in the nuclear war – you’d fucking hope – but I dunno. Whatever mojo kept her from ageing like a normal person, I wouldn’t be surprised if it did some other voodoo shit to help her survive the radiation.

Basically, Emori, I once thought a former Chancellor and some landmines were the worst of my problems. Turns out the world is so much weirder than I thought.

Too bad I’m never going to get to tell you about it, because I am definitely going to starve to death in this godforsaken lighthouse. Or I’m going to finally summon the courage to kill myself, whichever comes first-

A sudden noise of a lock disengaging wrenches Murphy violently from his fantasy. Fresh air, a luxury he’d forgotten all about, sweeps through the lighthouse, rustling Murphy’s disgusting hair and turning his legs to water. It can’t be…

He surges to his feet and staggers towards freedom.

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy, February 10th 2150**

 

Music fills the rover, crackling loud and staticy through the old Jeep speakers.

Bellamy looks over at Raven as she starts to sing along behind the wheel. He had watched earlier too as she’d winced pulling her leg up into the driver’s seat. Raven’s not doing well, anyone could see it. But she won’t let Bellamy, or anyone else, near her these days. If she’s determined to go it alone, Bellamy’s not going to push. It’s not like he could help, anyway. He can’t give her back Finn, or colour, or the use of her leg. Still, it’s nice to catch her smiling in the rearview mirror as she howls along with the song’s chorus.

Jasper is singing too. Bellamy has even less to offer Jasper in the way of help. He can barely even _look_ at Jasper without thinking of Maya. Without remembering that he’s the one responsible for what happened to her. What’s happened to Jasper is Bellamy’s fault. So it seems like the least he can do to let Jasper come along on their missions. To give him something to do. It doesn’t alleviate his guilt, but it’s something.

The worst part is that Jasper doesn’t blame Bellamy for what happened at the Mountain. He blames Monty and he blames Clarke, but he - everyone, really - always seems to forget that Bellamy was there too. That he pulled the trigger when Clarke hesitated. That he shares as much blame as anyone else. Jasper is, for whatever reason, unwilling to hate Bellamy for it. So instead, Bellamy has to bear the responsibility of destroying Jasper and Monty’s friendship.

Monty, who has his own place in the Jeep, sitting across from Bellamy, and beside him, Miller, as stoic as ever. It’s hard to look his friends in the face without feeling both responsible for their pain and impotent to help them. Still, as Miller starts to sing along too, Bellamy feels an immense tension lift from them all. For once he looks around and sees, not warriors, but teenagers. He smiles to himself and shakes his head at the thought. For one moment, he could almost believe they were happy.

The moment is cut off abruptly by their signal tracker. Farm Station. Within Ice Nation Territory. He knows they should turn around and report to Kane and Abby immediately, but as he looks to the faces of Monty and Miller, he sees how much this means to them. How much they all feel the desperate need to do something. Sitting behind walls to stew for months is killing them. In so many ways he is powerless to help his people, but he can do this, he can give them this. Screw protocol.  

 

* * *

 

**Nathan, February 10th 2150**

 

“The Chancellor’s not from Farm Station. Monty is. So is Miller’s boyfriend.”

Miller’s stomach bottoms out. From his position in the front seat, he sees Monty tense up, his back suddenly rigid. Ah. Fuck.

 _Bryan_. He didn’t even think Bellamy had remembered that. Once, in a moment of unguarded honesty, Miller had mentioned him, back in the early days of their lives at the dropship. When the worst they’d had to worry about was building a wall and making sure Murphy didn’t piss on anyone.

As soon as he’s said it, Bellamy seems to realize the mistake he’s made. He pales slightly in the dim light of the van, his eyes darting quickly from Miller to Monty and back. Monty seems to withdraw, subtly curling in on himself. _Awesome._ Raven and Octavia, mercifully, don’t seem to notice the abruptly awkward atmosphere that has taken over the rover. And Jasper, well, these days he can barely notice anything more subtle than a fist connecting with his face.

Miller clenches his jaw and looks away. He doesn’t want to think about Bryan. It feels like years since he’d last seen him. Before the Mountain and the dropship, before even the Sky Box. He had loved Bryan, but they had both agreed that maintaining a relationship when Miller had a great big 18-year-old expiry date hanging over his head didn’t make any sense and would only cause them both pain. So Bryan had never visited him in the Box. Never seen him again after the night Miller’s own father marched him to the Box. Bryan was like someone from a story. A colourless memory from some other guy’s life; a vestige from a childhood that Miller had been too keen to grow out of.

Then there was Monty. Who he’d met after being sent to the Sky Box. After Bryan. Monty, who said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, wasn’t sure how to cope with Miller’s match, wasn’t sure how he felt about Miller at all.

It doesn’t matter anyway. He and Monty aren’t together, and he and Bryan broke up years ago. They broke up. _Except..._ a voice pipes up in the back of his mind, _you broke up because you were going to die. Only you didn’t die, and if he didn’t die either, then maybe…_  

Miller feels the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. What’s even the point in speculating? Bryan’s dead. He died when the Exodus ship ripped the Ark apart, or when the Ark ran out of oxygen, or when it kamikazed to Earth, or by any of the million things that keep trying to kill them on the ground. A Farm Station tracker? That doesn’t mean anything. It means less than nothing. So why does Miller’s chest hurt? Hope is a living thing, trying to claw its way out of his rib cage.

 

* * *

 

**Murphy, February 10th 2150**

 

The world is so _loud_. Bright too. White sunlight is searing right through to the back of Murphy's eyes as he staggers up the hill, the grassy slope lurching under his feet with each step. More than once, he falls, his hands burying into the uniform-cut lawn, before he surges back to his feet and keeps moving.

He recognises the mansion looming over him: he’s seen it, endlessly, in the videos from the Lighthouse. At the top of the hill stands a wide sign, its letters just visible, dark grey on a pristine white plaque, ‘Welcome to the City of Light’. Below it, the seal of the City of Light, like a fucked up minimalist rendition of an eye. Murphy’s vision swims as he tries to lock onto the image. _Uh_ , his brain tries to tell him, _maybe you should sit down or something. You are not okay_. He keeps going up the hill anyway, ignoring his roiling stomach, and the burn in his eyes, and the way his vision is beginning to white out around the edges.

Alie and her crazy cult of activist-mad-scientists used to live here. After all this time, it should be in ruins, but it looks flawless, dazzling white and meticulously maintained.  Someone has clearly been looking after this place.

A laugh, high and hysterical, bubbles past Murphy’s lips.

He knew it had been wishful thinking to expect a goddamn _nuclear apocalypse_ would have wiped her out.

It takes all his strength just to open the front door of the mansion.

There, standing in the foyer like he’s been waiting for him, is Jaha. He looks just the same as he did all those months ago. Which means _he’s been here the whole time!_ He knew where Murphy was, and he left him trapped in that lighthouse for months. Wow, Murphy thought he’d hated this asshole before. It’s nothing compared to the loathing coursing through his blood now.

At Jaha’s side, is _her_. Wearing a dress of dark leather, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, she looks exactly like she did in the videos from a century before. Alie.

“You!” Murphy rasps, his voice strained with disuse. He’s not entirely sure, in the moment, which one of them he’s yelling at. He staggers forward, every intention in the world of sucker punching one or both of them.

His fist doesn’t even manage to make contact. Overwhelmed by shock, dehydration, starvation, stress, and sensory overload, Murphy’s body finally gives out. The last thing he sees as his vision whites out is the image of Alie reaching towards him, concern on her ageless face.

 

* * *

 

**Lincoln, February 10th 2150**

 

The ground rushes towards Lincoln. He only just has time to relax his muscles, preparing as best he can for the impact, when his forearms slam hard into the training mat. _Ow_. Abby claims the mats will reduce injury, but Lincoln would still prefer to fight outside, frost or no frost. His breath leaves him with the force of the landing, but he’s spinning up in an instant, levering up with his arms and kicking out against his assailant. He gets a strong sweeping cut across the back of her knees, and her feet go out from under her. Harper lands hard on her knees, sending a shudder through the training floor. With the high ground back up for grabs, Lincoln leaps up, snatching Harper from behind, his arm locking around her neck like a vice. With his other hand he pulls the dulled training knife from his belt and presses the blunt tip to her heart.

“Okay,” she gasps, “yield, yield.”

Lincoln releases her, and offers a hand to help her up.

She shakes out her knees as she stands. “Ow,” she mutters, echoing Lincoln’s own thoughts.

“You did good,” he assures her, offering a drink from his flask of purified rainwater.  She accepts it gratefully, gulping down half the canister before handing it back to him.

“Not good enough to not die.” The edge of bitterness in her voice takes Lincoln a little by surprise.

Though he probably should have been expecting this. Harper has been dogged in her relentless approach to training. Class officially ended hours ago, but Harper asked him to continue sparring with her for a while. ‘No one else puts up a real fight,’ she’d told him, which could mean a couple of things. Either her friends are too afraid of hurting her to train as they should, or she only wants to fight the best that Arkadia has to offer. Meaning that she wants to get her ass handed to her, if it means that she will learn faster. Indra would approve. She always insisted on pairing up uneven sparring partners, ‘how else will you know how much you do not know?’, she used to say.

Lincoln gives Harper a wry smile. They might just make a Grounder of her yet. “You’re learning fast though,” he promises, “a couple of weeks ago and you would have died much sooner.”

Harper laughs at that, looking somewhat appeased. “Once more?” she offers.

Lincoln shakes his head, “neither of us will be any good to anyone if we injure ourselves with practicing. Go eat, rest, and sleep.”

It’s pointless advice: no one in the whole camp seems capable of sleeping through the night, but he feels obliged to suggest it all the same.

Harper nods. “Thanks, Lincoln.”

He feels an odd mixture of gratitude and guilt as he watches her go. Gradually, Lincoln cleans up the training room and makes his way back towards the main square of camp. Octavia’s words are still ringing in his head. _Good Little Grounder_. It’s her disdain that hurts more than anything else, but he doesn’t know how to make her understand. Arkadia _has_ to work: they are out of other options.

For months, Lincoln has been turning over their choices in his mind. They could leave camp, but with Lincoln’s kill order still under effect, they cannot go back to Trikru. Unofficially Indra, Nyko and others among his Clan remain active allies to the Skaikru, but there is a difference between providing assistance and actively taking in a fugitive. With Trikru closed off to them, Octavia and Lincoln could try to make their own way, but with the Azgeda stirring up trouble in the north, they would surely not last long on their own. The alternative, one that Lincoln has been reluctant to raise with Octavia, is Luna. Luna’s colony at sea has a mandate to take in the tired, the broken, those who have lost their fight. It’s a drastic, permanent option, and Lincoln is not ready to take that recourse yet. For all that they have struggled, Lincoln has not lost his fight, and Octavia certainly has not. Lincoln is not ready to give up on the Skaikru. He believes in their mission for peace, he wants to help them achieve it, and he thinks he has a part to play in getting them there.

At the end of the day, he loves Octavia’s people. Maybe more than she does.

As Lincoln’s feet carry him towards their quarters, the colours of the Ark grow muted, rather than building in intensity. Curious, Lincoln doubles back, allowing his match to lead the way.

He follows the colour to Raven’s gate, and then beyond, into the woods just outside camp. There he finds her, asleep under the shade of a birch tree. The mere sight of Octavia expands Lincoln’s heart, filling him with enough warmth to combat the winter nights.

Settling down beside her, he worries for a moment about what mood he will find her in. Even so, he wraps his arms around her, warming her as best he can. She turns around in his arms, a smile blooming on her lips.

“Good thinking, leaving that jacket behind,” she tells him as she leans up towards him.

Her kiss is enough to banish the fears edging at the corners of his mind: that Kane’s experiments in farming will fail, that Lexa will lose control of the shaky peace, that the Azgeda will march again on the southern Clans, that he will lose Octavia, through circumstance, or divided choices, or fate. Octavia, whose lips are hot and insistent on his, whose hands have found their way under his shirt, whose love leaves colour sparking behind his eyelids. He knows he will weather any storm – of temper or of battle – to remain with her, as she would do the same for him.    

 

* * *

 

**Indra, February 10th 2150**

 

He’s late.

The designated meeting point is empty when she arrives. A ruined wall – moss coated and crumbling – crops up like a concrete plant from among the tall trees. Indra approaches it in silence, her eyes darting around for any sign of movement. Finding none, she pulls herself up to sit atop the wall. She waits. Minutes pass as she endlessly turns over the problems before them. Options and outcomes, choices and consequences, actions and the futures they could cause. She can feel the unprecedented danger surrounding her on all sides, pressing in and inescapable.

The woods are quiet tonight, but the air is not calm, and Indra cannot shake the feeling that they are all heading into dark times. In these quiet, heavy moments, she misses Kolum more than she has words to express. She had been foolish to ever believe he could have been saved from the Mountain, but she had. Just for a moment, she had really thought… but there is no use dwelling on it. She does not blame Abby for his loss – if anything, Abby went well beyond what duty required of her in attempting to help the Reapers. Though Indra cannot help wondering, sometimes, what might have happened if the Sky People had been there from the start. Could more of her people have been saved? If Lexa had held up her end of the bargain in the first place…

“ _Jok_.” Indra swears under her breath, scraping a hand through her short hair. She must stop considering what could have been. It will not bring Kolum back, and if she’s not careful it may get her killed. She must focus. Time marches forward, and there is much more to concern herself with. Regret is a luxury she has never had time for.

And in any case, Kane is approaching.

Indra hears him long before she sees him. His stealth is improving, but his footfall is still heavy and laboured. If she had been so inclined, she could have killed him before he knew she was there. Lucky for him, then, that those times have passed.

She rises from the wall as he approaches. “You’re late.”

“Good evening to you too, Indra.” He looks drawn and weary. A slice of moonlight cuts through the canopy, illuminating the sharp angles of his face as he moves to stand before her. “If you were in such a hurry, you could have just come to Arkadia directly and avoided all this cloak and dagger in the first place.”

Indra glares at the implication. As though she goes lurking around the edges of the Trikru border in the middle of night for her own amusement. “That would not have been wise. It is critical that we act quickly and with absolute discretion.”

That has Kane’s attention. He crosses his arms over his chest, head cocked to the side. “What’s this about?”

“Clarke.”

Kane immediately goes rigid, shifting from curious to alarmed in a heartbeat. “Clarke?”

“She has been targeted. We must find her before the Azgeda do.”

“Wait, slow down. Targeted? What do the Azgeda want with her?” Kane shakes his head, clearly thrown. “Is Clarke in danger?”

“We are all in danger. We must move quickly. Where is Bellamy?”

Kane blinks, clearly trying to absorb all of this at once. “Out on a patrol. Why?”

“He and Clarke are _keryon-ai,_ are they not? He can help us track her. Do you know where he is?”

“I can find him. But Indra, I still don’t understand-“

“I will explain on the way. Let’s move.”

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, February 10th 2150**

 

Clarke jolts awake, blood pounding in her ears, muscles tensed for a fight. It takes her a moment to register her unfamiliar surroundings. Thick furs are tangled around Clarke’s waist, and there is a cool evening breeze striking at her exposed skin. The bed is soft beneath her. Softer than anything she’s slept on for a very long time, maybe ever. The furs are warm, and a beautiful girl is asleep at Clarke’s side. Niylah’s back is rising and falling gently as she sleeps, the intricate design of the tattoo on her back just visible in the low moonlight. By rights, Clarke should want nothing more than to crawl back under the covers of the impossibly warm bed and greet the morning with someone in her arms. But she doesn’t feel comfortable. She feels unnerved.

She looks over at Niylah again, willing herself to feel something towards this smart, gorgeous, brave girl next to her. She had wanted so badly to feel something last night. And it had felt good, it had felt so good to be touched by someone after so long on her own. Except now, the only emotion Clarke can summon up is panic. She should not have stayed in one place for so long, not after such a close call with those men looking for her. Being here puts Niylah in danger. Being around anyone puts them in danger. She is dangerous. She’d been weak to stay here last night, weak to cave to her desire for comfort, for sex.

Clarke gathers up her things in the dark as quickly and quietly as possible. She is grateful that Niylah remains still, either because she is still asleep, or because she knows that asking Clarke to stay won’t make any difference.  

As Clarke silently emerges from Niylah’s house and closes the door behind her, something catches her eye and she freezes on the spot. Flowers and weeds bloom all along the path outside of the trading post. The moonlight is weak, but she could have sworn that they looked purple against the black earth.

 _What’s Bellamy doing so far outside of camp?_ The hairs along the back of her neck prickle. Something is happening. Something is wrong. Again she feels the urge to run as fast as she can into the welcoming, forgetful, black night. To outstrip the colour and disappear again into the wildest reaches of the earth. She feels again, with absolute certainty, that her being here is a hazard.

But before she can do anything, a large, cold hand falls on her shoulder, seizing her from behind.

Too late. She’d been an idiot. Clarke thinks of Niylah inside. Once again, she’s put anyone she gets close to in danger.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love to hear your thoughts!


	3. February 11th 2150: Back From the Dead

**Nyko, February 11th 2150**

 

He should not have let his curiosity get the better of him.

It is a simple journey between the Trikru and Skaikru camps, a journey Nyko has much familiarity with, but on his way he had noticed a disturbance in the forest. Hoofprints, too deep and too recent to be either Skaikru or Trikru, heading north. Suspecting already who the prints belonged to, Nyko had set to tracking.

What he found was worse than he had feared.

He should not be here, deep in enemy territory without proper weapons or armors. He is no scout, and he has his own mission to attend to.

He had been travelling to Arkadia to discuss with Abby what data she had been able to gather following their attempts to save the Reapers. The endeavour had been almost a complete failure. In addition to Lincoln, they had only been able to save two others from the curse. The rest – including Indra’s match – had perished swiftly. Nyko had been enraged by the loss, but Abby insisted that while their deaths were a tragedy, much could still be learned from this.

At the time Abby had suspected there was also more to be learned from the archives in the Mountain. Perhaps the Mountain Men had once experimented with withdrawal themselves; perhaps their data could have helped to save more of the men, but there had been no time to find out: from the moment the Mountain Men were defeated, the Reapers lost their access to the drug. The effects of withdrawal took hold within a day, swift and horrible.

Indra had ridden alone to the gates of the Skaikru to beg them for help with the suffering Reapers. No longer bound by the accord set by Lexa, Abby and her people would have been within their rights to refuse: Lexa did not hold up her end of the bargain, why should they? But Abby is an honourable woman, and a healer, and she helped all the same. Even though the efforts failed, her actions bought a lifelong ally in Indra and the Trikru.

The hoofprints led Nyko to a steep ridge. Standing on the edge of it now, he surveys the full force of the Azgeda army at march. Hundreds of them. A swarm, a black shadow, passing across the frost-white valley.  Moving south, a direct march towards the Trikru border.

He has seen enough, and he cannot risk discovery. It is against every instinct in Nyko’s body to put an army at his back, but he has no choice but to retreat the way he has come. Quickly as he can, Nyko guides his mare back down the cliff face, hoping to escape detection.

Just as the sounds of the army have faded behind him, comes the telltale strain and swish of an arrow being nocked and released. The arrow flies just an inch wide, skimming past Nyko’s temple, displacing the air and rustling his hair. He did not escape undetected. Nyko cannot risk looking back. Armed only with a hunting knife and dressed in furs for travel, Nyko will die if he attempts to turn and fight. So he bolts, adrenaline sparking like a struck match in his blood, urging his horse forward. The path is treacherous, rocky and uneven, and he is not fast enough. Behind him, the Azgeda scout has notched another arrow.

He is not so lucky the second time.

The arrow slices clean through his side, catching his arm. It might not have been a serious wound, but for the cut on his inner arm. Deep, too near the bone. It will have surely hit an artery. Blood is already soaking his furs, weighing him down on one side.

He must go _faster_.

Kicking hard into the sides of his horse, he races back towards the Trikru border. In a dead sprint, he manages to avoid two more arrows - one passing just wide on Nyko’s right, the other burying into the saddle of his horse, alarmingly close to her left flank. Finally, they reach the edge of the forest. Undaunted, Nyko surges forward. He has the advantage; he knows these woods in a way the Ice Nation warrior cannot. At his back, Nyko hears his pursuer pull up short at the point where rock gives way to woodland, clearly unwilling to be drawn too far from their post, and into enemy territory without backup.

Free of his attacker, Nyko now just has to hope he lives long enough to deliver the message of what he has seen.

 

* * *

 

**Marcus, February 11th 2150**

 

They move deeper into Azgeda territory. Kane has never been this far North, but it’s clear from his confident stride through the tall grass that Pike has. Pike, back from the dead, and with him sixty others from Farm Station, now heading back to the safety of Arkadia. Kane had long since given up hope of so much. It felt like the answer to so many of their problems, maybe now they stood a chance of survival after all.

As Kane moves up to walk beside Pike, he catches the way the other man’s eyes dart back to survey Indra.

“You think we are wrong to trust the Grounders, but I assure you Indra and Trikru have proven themselves to us.”

“I don’t think you’re wrong,” Pike corrects him. “I think you’re lucky. Guess you just picked the right place to land.”

“It hasn’t all been easy, we were on the brink of being wiped out by the Grounders when we managed to form a truce with them in order defeat a common enemy.”

“Well we don’t have a common enemy with, what did you call them? Ice Nation? And even if we had they sure wouldn’t have been interested in forming any truce. They hunted us. Every day. We’ve been constantly on the move, always ready to run, always ready to fight. That’s how we survived.”

“You won’t have to run anymore,” Kane promises. “It was because you were on their land, in their territory. Once we get back across the border, they will respect the Commander’s peace.”

“You sure about that?”

“Trust me. As long as we stay true to the Commander, she will protect us.”

“And that may be the case for all of these peaceful happy Grounders you seem to be getting along with, but with respect, you haven’t met the Ice Nation.”

Pike’s voice is so cold and hardened Kane’s not sure how to respond. This is not the same idealistic man he used to know up on the Ark, that much is clear. On the Ark, Pike’s role had been one of preserving and passing down survival skills and information to the next generation. Not so that that generation could ever use those skills (or so they all assumed) but so at least one of them would remember it all and one day take on the mantel of teaching it themselves to the next generation. Now, everything that had once been a world of hypotheticals and one-days was real and a matter of life and death. Pike had spent his life studying what it would be like to return to the earth, and now that he was here, Kane has to wonder if the reality wasn’t more than he’d bargained for.

Kane looks back at the rest of their group. Bellamy is taking up the rear, his eyes darting around restlessly. Kane had watched him slowly become more and more agitated since they left the Grounder trading post. They must be getting closer to Clarke. Kane wishes he could ask Bellamy about this, but despite the obvious truth of his match, he’s never heard Bellamy own it. So Kane accepts that he must respect his privacy in this matter. After all, Kane knows a thing or two about keeping a match secret. It had been more years than Kane cared to count, and finally, now for the first time, he feels comfortable about openly admitting to people that he’s happily matched with Abby. The first time he had said the words, it had been to Sinclair, and at the time it felt like a giant weight was lifted off of him.

Much like Bellamy, it’s also for the sake of his match that Kane is desperate to find Clarke. He thinks of Abby, at home in Arkadia, unaware of the severe danger her daughter is currently in. He wants to tell her, to be honest and open with her, but there is nothing she could do, miles away, and bound as Chancellor to remain at camp. The inability to act would eat at her, and do nobody any good. Abby cannot track her wayward daughter across hostile land, but Kane can sure as hell do it for her. When they bring Clarke back, safe and sound, then he can explain to Abby what happened. It will be okay, once Clarke's home.

He is pulled from his thoughts by Indra coming to an abrupt stop and signalling to them all to halt.

Pausing, Kane listens. There are drums pounding in the distance.

“Azgeda,” says Indra, “they are on the move.”   

“So much for respecting the Commander’s peace.” Pike comments at Kane’s side, “Where are they marching to? What’s directly south of here?”

“We are,” Kane replies, his blood going cold.  

 

* * *

 

**Pike, February 11th 2150**

 

Pike only just spots Bellamy in time, trying to dart towards the figures in the open field. In a flash, Pike catches him up, hauling him back and blocking the boy’s path. He has to keep a firm hold on Bellamy’s shoulders just to keep him in place. What kind of an idiot… is he _trying_ to get them all killed?

Bellamy, a world away from the quiet, self-possessed boy Pike remembers from his Earth Skills class, howls at Pike to get out of the way. His eyes are blown wide, his whole body jerking with the effort of breaking Pike’s grip.

The poor kid has lost his mind. He wants to run across an open field, when their enemies have the high ground. He’s going to get himself killed. He’s going to get the rest of them killed in the process. Pike is trying to save his damn life and look at the thanks he’s getting. Bellamy barely even seems to notice Pike at all - his gaze, every iota of his attention, is locked on the girl in the field.

With a sinking realization, Pike puts two and two together. Of course. Only one thing can turn a leader and a soldier into such a drooling idiot. Clarke must be Bellamy’s match.

After all the stories he’s heard of what these kids have been through, he’d expected more from Bellamy. Where’s his survival instinct? How have any of them survived this long if they’re such slaves to their matches?

Colour is nothing but a distraction. For Pike, the world has been black and white from the moment they landed on this Earth. The crash landing hadn’t been without its casualties - his match among them. But Pike no longer mourns the loss. If anything he’s grateful. The universe had a message for him, and he’s received it, loud and clear: on Earth, there is no time for illusions.

This world is black and white. His choices are clear.

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy, February 11th 2150**

 

How can he be expected to just sit here, hiding in this cave, as he watches the colour drain away around him? She’s close. So close that he can see all the rich detail of the wheat field outside the cave, hues of pale gold and amber, but fading fast. The very idea that anyone could expect him to just sit here and do nothing is laughable. No, it’s not a question of _if_ he will follow after Clarke, it’s a question of _how._

There is nothing else to consider; nothing matters but finding Clarke before she’s gone too far for him to track the colour. From the moment he sensed her in the open field, from the moment he saw her tied up and captive like that, it has been the only thought in his mind.

He’s been waiting for her to come back to him for three months. For three months he has done nothing. He has listened to Octavia and Abby and everyone else who told him that she would return when she was ready. So he has tried to put her from his mind, tried to convince himself that she was fine. He told himself that she needed space, and he would respect her wishes.

But now, it’s clear that she is not fine. _She needs him_.

His eyes fall on the bodies of the dead Ice Nation warriors lying at the entrance to the cave. Their faces are obscured, they could be anyone. An idea takes shape in his mind.   

Clarke needs him, so he is on the way. The world around him seems to brighten at the very thought.

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, February 11th 2150**

 

The rope binding her wrists behind the pillar cuts painfully into her flesh. The gag in her mouth tastes of sweat and dirt. She’s dozing; her eyes are closed. She can’t sleep, but every part of her aches and she wishes she could.

Then she senses it, hears it, footsteps; someone is here. She opens her eyes and even though all she sees is the dull earth at her feet, there is no mistaking it, _colour_. Brighter and more vivid than she’s seen in months. She looks up, knowing what she’ll find even more she sees him. Bellamy is there, rushing to kneel before her, his gaze intent. The effect of his presence on her is instant and a little terrifying: a relief so powerful and heady that she feels pricks of tears behind her eyes. He’s really here, his rich brown eyes inches from her own. She had been seeing snatches of colour since she’d been taken captive. She knew he’d been close, and getting closer, but to have him right here in front of her, it’s more than she was prepared for.

His hand shakes as he pushes a strand of her gleaming blonde hair from her eyes, fingers tracing a line across her cheek. It’s such a simple and intimate gesture. Even in a dull cave, the colour is overwhelming. The detail of the dirt under her feet - never uniform, but a rich shading of a dozen varieties of brown - the mottled torchlight dancing against the cave wall, the hint of pink in the hard line of Bellamy’s cheeks.  After so many months without it, she had forgotten. Forgotten how vibrant and alive the world could look. How _right_ it feels. It really is impossibly beautiful.

“Bellamy-” she speaks around the rag in her mouth. She needs to warn him. Even as she revels in having him back, she feel a spike of fear. _Where is her captor_?

Fingers gentle and warm, he eases the gag from Clarke’s mouth.

“We’ll get you out of here.”

She sees _him_ , sharper and easier to spot now her vision has been restored. She barely has a second to react. As soon as her mouth is free she screams her warning, but it is already too late.

Her captor has Bellamy on his back before he has a chance to fully rise. Blade to his throat, he pins Bellamy down.

Panic rips through her like a flame to gasoline. The words are falling out of Clarke before she even has time to fully process the situation.

“No please, please don’t!” Her tears of relief have turned sharply to terror. She knows in that moment that for all her running away, she is far from ready to be a colour widow. She needs Bellamy. Needs him, because just a minute of his presence is enough to remind her how much there is left to fight for. Needs him because the idea of a world without him makes her blood run cold and her heart seize in her chest.

“I’ll do anything.” She knows, even as she tears against her restraints, that she is showing far too much of her hand, but she doesn’t care. All she can focus on is the chestnut brown of Bellamy’s eyes and the press of her captor’s blade against his exposed throat. “I’ll stop fighting, JUST PLEASE DON’T KILL HIM.”

Finally, her captor seems to notice the extent of Clarke’s distress. He shoots her an expression of almost amused interest. She has never felt so transparent. The truth must be written all over her, as he looks her up and down, assessing the situation. Tense, Clarke has no choice but to watch and wait as he weighs this information.

He slowly removes the sword from Bellamy’s neck. A thanks rushes out of Clarke’s mouth, relief washing over her. Then, taking Bellamy’s own knife from his belt, her captor drives it into Bellamy’s leg. The cave lights up like a flash of lightning as Clarke bites down on a scream.

“Don’t follow us,” he growls at Bellamy.

Clarke can do nothing to help as her captor hauls her away from the cave. On the move again, she watches as the colour of the tall grass around them slowly fades. Her only comfort is that at least the draining colour means Bellamy is still alive.

 

* * *

 

**Jasper, February 11th 2150**

 

 _Let’s go to the Mountain,_ they said, _what could possibly go wrong there,_ they said. Jasper stands staring down the halls of Mt Weather once again. Abby, Lincoln and Octavia had already rushed down the hall to the medical bay, desperate to save that Grounder friend of Lincoln’s, leaving Jasper alone to stare at the walls. The ugly dull grey walls. He knew the walls hadn’t exactly been bright and colourful before, but they had been different, it had all been different.

He wasn’t sure why he had been allowed to tag along on this mission, maybe they had all just given up on him, maybe none of them gave a fuck what he did anymore. That’s what it felt like. He had pushed away all of his friends and he didn’t care. It was easier to have no one than to have to pretend with them that everything was fine. Everything is not fine. It will never be fine again and there’s nothing he can do about it.

The world doesn’t even look real anymore. Everything about it feels empty. Hollow, like he’s living in a world of shadows. The worst part is that nothing reminds him of her. He never knew her under the sky or in a forest, or inside the Ark. Instead, he’s forced to always wonder what grass really looks like, or what it is about a sunset that makes people go on and on about it. Everything just reminds him that she’s gone. He can feel her slipping further away from him every day. He looks at the outside world, at flowers and clouds and furry little animals, and all he thinks about is how Maya never got to see any of it, and he never got to see any of it with her. The outside world will never be truly alive for Jasper, so how could he ever feel truly alive for it?

This Mountain, a place of horror and torture and slaughter, is also the only place he’s ever known in colour. He had come on this mission because he thought maybe, being back here, he could at least be reminded of her. Maybe, he thought, this world that had once been in colour for him, would be an easier place to remember what it had once looked like.

He’d been wrong. Nothing looks familiar, nothing reminds him of a place he’d once loved. It’s strange and foreign, and all he can remember is the irradiated children in the halls.

He set off abruptly down the hall. He needs to see something again, needs to find something. The Mountain itself might not bring back his memories of her, but he knows what will.

\--

Even these don’t look right! He tears through the storage room, checking painting after painting. Some of them he barely recognises, some of them are like a cheap copy of the original. All of them are terrible. He tosses them aside, one after another. There’s still one though, one that he’ll still remember, he’s sure of it. If he could only find it… there. He withdraws it from a low shelf, under a stack of others. Propping it up gingerly against the wall, he sinks down to the ground, staring at it. He doesn’t look away as he hears the storage room door open and footsteps approach.

“Hey,” Octavia says.

If she notices the carnage of discarded paintings lying around Jasper like corpses, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she just sits down beside him, her arm brushing his. He would never say it, but he’s grateful she’s here. He is so, so sick of being left alone.

“I’m fine.” The words are a reflex at this point.

“Yeah,” she sighs, accepting his obvious lie.

“This was her favourite,” he finds himself saying, “ _The Lovers' Whirlwind_ in the Second Circle of Hell. Pretty ironic if you think about it. I told her I liked it, but I-” the words catch in his throat as a tear rolls down his cheek. “I don’t even remember what it’s supposed to look like. I thought if I could just see it again, I would remember...”

He feels Octavia glance at him, taking him in. Then, staring straight at the painting, she begins with no further invitation or preamble.

“It’s colours are muted, but rich. There are flecks of blue in the green grass here,” Octavia indicates with one sweeping hand. “The blues are so dark in parts of the sky they almost look black.” Jasper’s eyes slip closed as he let Octavia’s description take him into a memory where he could see the painting once more. “The red along the river is soft, almost orange, and the light there at the top is the kind of faint, bright yellow that wants to blind you with warmth. It’s beautiful, but in a sad sort of way. It’s powerful, with colour or without: I can see why she liked it.”   

Jasper nods.

A distant, detached part of his mind - the part of him that still remembers a time before he met Maya - hears what Octavia is trying to tell him. _Colour is wonderful, but it’s not all there is. Black and white can still be beautiful._ It’s something Maya would have understood. She would have remembered the painting before she met Jasper and after, and she would have loved both versions. Except Maya was a better person than he is. Stronger. Maybe she could have moved on, but Jasper can’t. He’s not ready to hear that monochrome has value, not ready to let go of what he’s lost. 

He wishes, with a sudden urgency, that he’d remembered to refill his flask. It’s so much easier when he’s drunk. Sometimes, for just a moment, a sweet numbness would wash over him, and he almost, almost forgets. He spends all his time these days chasing those moments. It never feels good, but at least sometimes it’s a little less bad.

 

* * *

 

**Monty, February 11th 2150**

 

It takes them too long to catch up to Bellamy. They’d needed to skirt around the back of the Ice Nation army, taking them almost a mile out of their way, before they finally came to the mouth of a cave. Judging from the still-warm fire, Clarke and her captor just left. They didn’t find Bellamy, but they did find an alarming pool of dark, tacky blood.

Tracking the trail of blood is so easy even Monty could have done it, and he’s a useless tracker. Monty knows, somehow, that it’s Bellamy’s blood they’re following. It must be. If it was Clarke or her captor, there would have been more signs of a struggle in the cave. Or they would have found a dead body by now. Monty tries not to think about what they’re going to find when they reach the end of the trail of blood. He distracts himself by calculating how much blood a person can lose before they pass out, how much blood Bellamy is likely to have based on his weight and height, and how much they’ve found in the forest so far. He’s no biologist, but he knows enough to make acceptable estimates. The math is encouraging, at least. Whoever they’re tracking probably hasn’t bled to death yet. That’s something.

Pike and Kane lead the way. Monty’s more than happy to hang back with him mom. He finds himself, constantly, cutting his gaze over to her. Any second he expects to blink and find her gone. He’d never even allowed himself to fantasize about getting his parents back, never even allowed himself to consider the possibility. It was too remote a possibility, too likely to cause him pain. Monty’s fantasies these days mostly amount to: _one day we’ll get to eat fresh vegetables_ , or _one day Wick and I might find the time to build a shower and a water heater_. _One day I might find the courage to talk to Miller about more than the day’s patrol route. One day Jasper will look at me and I’ll recognize him again._ Nowhere in the list had he put: _One day my mother will show up dressed like a Grounder and stomp around the forest like a stone cold badass_.

But he knows it must be real, though. Because his dad is still dead. If this was a dream, Monty doesn’t think his subconscious would be that cruel.

He remembers, suddenly, once watching Abby re-breaking a kid’s nose. It hadn’t set right the first time, she’d said. She needed to re-break it in order for it to heal.  His dad’s death feels like that: an injury that didn’t set right. He’d thought he was over it, or at least had been able to move past it. Getting his mom back, it’s re-broken the wound. Now, he has no choice but to face the real and true facts of what happened to his dad. He thinks he was happier in the abstract. Knowing that his dad had made it to the Earth – that for a while they walked the same ground, and Monty hadn’t been there, hadn’t known enough to find them in time – was much worse. But who knows, maybe this time he’ll be able to heal.

“Bellamy!”

Kane is shouting, striding quickly towards a tree. It takes Monty a moment of staring before Bellamy comes into focus: camouflaged in the ashy foliage, leaning heavily against the wide trunk of a fir tree.

He’s at Bellamy’s side in an instant, hand on his friend’s shoulder. One look at him is enough to tell Monty that he’s in as bad shape as he’d feared: sweat is glistening across his forehead, plastering his curls to his face and falling in beads down his temples. Blood is gushing from his leg, a stab wound that Bellamy is ineffectively using one hand to keep covered, but it’s too deep and too long, and should have received medical attention an hour ago. His eyes are set and hard, but he can’t keep the pain from breaking through his expression.

“I want to find Clarke too,” Monty tell him, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to be the one in control.

Because Bellamy has lost it. He staggers forward like a man possessed, and Monty knows, instinctively, that he would die before he abandoned his pursuit of Clarke. Monty _will not_ allow that to happen.

“You could die out here,” Monty snaps, low and urgent. He has to make Bellamy listen, has to crack through the wall of poor judgement that always seems to come over the desperately matched.

 **“** WE CAN’T LOSE CLARKE!”

There it is.

The raw, open anguish seems to finally break through his haze of longing. Bellamy blinks, as though hearing himself for the first time, and at last seems to come back to earth. The devastation on his face is almost too much for Monty. He wants to look away, wants to hide from the force of it. Instead, he leans forward, drawing Bellamy towards him.

“We will get her back, but this isn’t the way.”

All the fight has left him. Bellamy sags against Monty, clearly a potent mix of exhausted, injured, and heartbroken. It’s all Monty can do to keep his own hands from shaking as he wraps an arm around Bellamy’s back and helps him walk with them back to the van.

Every damn day, Monty finds another reason to hate colour-matches.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming tomorrow!


	4. February 12th 2150: A Good Match

**Lexa, February 12th 2150**

 

“Roan is sufficiently motivated, he will ensure no harm comes to Clarke.”

“ _Heda_ , this is not about Clarke. This is about you, and your control of your people. You cannot allow Nia to kill _Wanheda_. If she does, the others will follow her. It is the demonstration of power they have been waiting for. Your command stands on a knife’s point-”

“Enough.” Lexa holds up a hand, directing Indra into silence.

She’s right, of course, much as Lexa may be loath to admit it. Her homecoming three months ago had not been what Lexa anticipated. Her ambassadors have grown restless. She hears their whispers in the walls of Polis Tower; she sees their eyes casting suspicious, resentful glances at her. The coalition of the twelve Clans, not even a year old, is already at risk of crumbling.

Indra, of all her ambassadors, has remained stalwart and true. Lexa surveys her from her throne of twisted branches. Below her, Indra stands undaunted, her expression open and plainly concerned.

“Your ambassadors are a pack of wild dogs,” she continues, “held at bay with a fraying rope. The accords of peace were signed months ago, and the Clans have not yet reaped any reward for pledging fealty to you. The winter was a mild one. It has allowed the Azgeda to grow in numbers and strength. _Heda_ , the Ice Queen will not hesitate to mount another rebellion-”

“I know this already,” Lexa cuts across Indra again. “When we formed the coalition of the twelve Clans, she and her sons mounted their rebellion. I defeated it last time, if she tries again I will defeat her again.”

“This is different. The Rebellion Wars were mounted alone, but if she gets the other Clans on her side… _Heda_ , your ambassadors are all great warriors in their own right,” Indra continues, her tone only just on the subservient side of telling-off, “in the days before the coalition, each Clan had their own great armies, answerable to no one. You cannot expect the Clan Kings and Queens to bow before you without question just because you are the Commander.”

“I cannot?” Lexa bristles. “Former Commanders may have been content to hold little more than a ceremonial position. A religious figurehead, someone to hear petitions and settle the odd dispute. What kind of leader is that? What kind of leader sits back and _watches_ as their Clans waged wars against one another? As their own people raid one another’s villages. I would not allow it. I was the first Commander in history to bring peace to the twelve Clans.”

“There is a _reason_ the former Commanders were unable to hold a lasting peace-”

“They were weak. A guiding light, perhaps, for the twelve Clans, but an ineffectual presence in the pursuit of protecting their people. I have done what no commander before me could: I have brought them all under the single banner of the Commander of Polis and the Allied Clans. I have made them _my_ people.”

“Yes, _Heda_ , but by bringing them under your banner, you have forced them to burn their own.”

A prickle of suspicion passes across the back of Lexa’s neck. “Tell me Indra,” she leans forward in her throne, menace in her voice. “Would you count yourself among the ‘wild dogs’ you call my ambassadors?”

Indra flinches, clearly startled. “I am loyal to you.”

Lexa hums, unconvinced. “We shall see. You may go. I will alert you when Roan has brought me what I sent him to seek.”

Indra bows low and leaves without a further word.

Lexa knows she should be grateful for Indra’s guidance, but she cannot stand to hear any more about the Azgeda. She will face that threat again before too long, but for now her attention still lies elsewhere.

Alone in the throne room of the Tower, Lexa pulls herself from her throne and goes to stand by the edge of the large window, overlooking the city far below.

Time was, Lexa felt this was her holy mission, assigned to her by the spirit of the first Commander. Now, looking out the high window, across at the textured grey sunrise, she struggles to recall that same surety of purpose. The city is no longer familiar to her. It used to dazzle in the sunlight, full of life and warmth and the faces of people she loved. Without Gustus and Anya and Costia, the city has felt stark and cold all winter. Lexa is still determined in her duty as Commander. These are her people, and she will fight to keep them, but she will not do it at the expense of the few remaining people in this world for whom she still cares.

In the months since the Mountain, Lexa has been unable to drive her mind from Clarke. She does not regret her choice to save her people from the Mountain, but she wonders whether it might have been possible to take another path: to rescue her people and still fulfill her oath to the fierce Sky Leader. To Clarke.

Clarke, who was bright and vivid, even in grey. Lexa will rescue her because she needs to politically, and because she owes Clarke that much. But, most of all, she will do it because she wants to. She will not see Clarke harmed, not by any hand.  

 

* * *

 

**Nathan, February 12th 2150**

 

Miller twists his hands into knots, ignoring the breakfast in front of him. All around, various members of camp come and go from the Mess, chatting loudly. It’s still early, the sun hadn’t even fully risen when Miller had made his way from his quarters. But no one in Arkadia sleeps anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.

The chandelier over his head twinkles in the light, so at odds with the austere metal of the Ark. When he’d first seen it, back in the Mountain, Miller had been transfixed by it. He’d never seen anything like it before. He’d thought it was beautiful. On the Ark, function had always won out over form. The beauty of the chandelier had been so foreign. He’d thought it was symbol of security: a society that could afford to invest in such beautiful things must have been safe. What idiocy. Now, the sight of that stupid chandelier makes Miller physically sick. A token of their genocide, a spoil of their war, bought with the lives of children. Privately, Miller agrees with Jasper that touching anything in the Mountain is sick and twisted, whatever the benefits. As usual, though, Miller bites his tongue. No one has asked for his opinion, and it wouldn’t make a bit of fucking difference anyway.

His boot taps nervously against the metal floor.

“Miller?”

Bellamy is limping heavily towards him, leaning most of his weight on a piece of rebar he seems to have appropriated as a cane. He stops directly across the table, shifting his weight awkwardly before dropping heavily into the seat opposite.

“You, uh…” Bellamy starts, leaning a little towards him. “Did you hear about Farm Station?”

 _Which part_? Miller nearly asks. _The part where they survived the suicidal drop to Earth? The part where more than half of them have since been slaughtered because they had the insane bad luck of landing in Ice Nation territory? The part where we finally found them, several months too late? Or do you mean the part where they’re currently on their way to Arkadia? Oh wait, maybe you mean the part where Bryan is among them. Then there’s the part where my colour-match is avoiding me like I’m the plague and I can’t even look him in the eye, let alone try and untangle how I feel about the mess I made. Is that the part you were wondering about?_

“I heard,” Miller says instead.

Bellamy’s look of discomfort deepens as he frowns at his friend. “Do you…” He scratches the back of his neck. “Want to talk about it?”

Miller chokes on a laugh, so distracted by Bellamy’s attempts at comforting him that he forgets the anxiety coiling a knot in his stomach.

“With you?” he manages faintly. “No offense, man, but relationship advice is not your strong suit. I mean, I’d follow you into acid fog without blinking, but-”

“Oh, thank god.” Bellamy lets out a breath of relief, slumping forward on the table.

“Thanks anyway.” Miller gives him a wan smile, which drops as soon as he gets a good look at Bellamy’s face. Circles as dark as bruises line Bellamy’s eyes. His tension and exhaustion is so palpable that Miller feels his own stress ratchet up just looking at him. According to Harper he’d arrived back at camp some time in the middle of the night with Monty, Pike, and Kane. From the looks of things, he hasn’t slept in the meantime. Rumour from Harper was also that he’d found Clarke and got a knife in the leg for his troubles. “What about you, though?” Miller asks carefully. “You okay? I heard about what happened. You found Clarke?”

Bellamy’s expression fractures. A sharp, painful longing passes through his eyes. “Yeah. For a minute I thought... but I lost her.”

He lost her, and Clarke might be dead by now. Miller knows that feeling all too well, but has no comfort to offer. He’s saved from needing to try when a sudden shout echoes through the hall. Voices and the sound of people running, drifting across camp from the front gate.

The weak, shattered look in Bellamy’s eyes is gone. “They’re here,” he says, snapping to attention. Bellamy’s already pushing himself to his feet, making a move towards the door.

Miller jerks upright and follows Bellamy in a daze. His stomach is a lead weight, his head is spinning, his hands are shaking. What if Bryan doesn’t even recognize him anymore? What if they’ve both changed too much? What if there’s nothing left between them? What if there _is?_

His anxiety had been mounting steadily all morning and now, as he hovers among the crowd at the gate, watching the survivors from Farm Station file into Arkadia, Miller has no idea what to expect. No idea, until the moment he lays eyes on Bryan, and all his fears melt away like morning frost. Bryan is walking alone, his hands buried in the pockets of a tattered jacket, his eyes taking in the monumental structure of the Ark towering over them. He looks older and wary and hardened, but it’s _him_. Bryan, whole and healthy and - for the first time in Miller’s life - saturated in colour. Bryan, his hair a lighter shade of brown than Miller had imagined. Bryan, his shoulders broader than they used to be. Bryan, more strikingly beautiful than Miller’s memory had been able to do justice. The fierce emotion that rushes through Miller is dizzying. And he knows, with a startling certainty, that this is what love feels like.

Suddenly, he’s running. He pelts forward through the crowd, blind to anyone else around them. Bryan sees him at the last moment, his face popping into a shocked expression, before Miller is upon him, arms going around his lower back, crushing his face into the crook of Bryan’s neck.

“Oh my god,” he hears Bryan mutter over his shoulder. For a moment he’s unresponsive, frozen in shock. Then Miller feels hands on the back of his neck, fingers gently stroking his hair. A small whimper escapes Miller’s lips.

It feels like years since he’s been hugged.

Bryan pulls back after a moment, his hands still locked around the back of Miller’s neck. “It’s really you,” he breathes. His voice is a little rougher than Miller remembers, edged with a defensiveness that hadn’t been there before, but it’s still him. The warm familiarity leaves Miller overwhelmed with relief.

It’s the first time they’ve spoken in years, and Miller suddenly can’t think of a damn thing to say. _I thought you were dead_. _I missed you, I mourned you, I thought I had moved on. I was so, so wrong_. Nothing would sound right, so Miller just dives forward, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Bryan’s chapped lips. As he does, Miller remembers with a painful jolt just how long it’s been since he’s kissed anyone at all. It’s clumsy and awkward and more of a peck than anything impassioned or romantic, but Miller’s never been good with words, and it certainly says more than he could have managed to speak aloud.

He pulls away again, and can’t stop himself from staring. He knows the colour is stolen, a betrayal somehow, but he can’t help reveling in the full force of Bryan’s brown eyes - a sight he never thought he would get to see.

It’s only as they’ve turned around, Miller promising to give Bryan a tour of Arkadia, that he spots Monty. With colours slicing through the early morning, Miller shouldn’t have been surprised to find him nearby.  Standing to the side with his mother, Miller catches Monty staring at them. Their eyes lock. A deep blush blooms on Monty’s cheeks, before he turns away, his gaze lingering briefly on Miller and Bryan’s entwined hands.

A spike of loss shoots through Miller’s chest, but he ignores it. Monty made his feelings clear, and with Bryan’s palm warm and reassuring in his hand, Miller has never been so sure of what he wants. His match was always more trouble than it was worth. It doesn't matter anyway, matches are not the only way to find love, and Miller does not need colour to love Bryan. He never has.  

 

* * *

 

**Abby, February 12th 2150**

 

They are remarkably healthy, all things considered.

The recent arrivals from Farm Station have formed a long line, which snakes through the Medical Bay and out the door. Abby had insisted on checking their health. Maybe, as Chancellor, she should be concerned about setting up their beds for the night, or food for tomorrow morning, but she has Marcus for that. The truth is - the truth has always been - that Abby is a doctor first, and Chancellor second.

At the moment, she has no choice but to be a mother third. Her only daughter is currently god knows where, and what is Abby doing about it? Absolutely nothing. She is powerless to help her daughter, so all she can do is try to help as many other people as she can.

So, one by one, Abby or Jackson checks their new arrivals over. It’s a measure of how much Farm Station has been through, that they all stand and wait in near silence. Even the children - though there are surprisingly few - stand still and wait their turn without any fidgeting or signs of boredom. Abby can’t help wondering what their winter looked like. What it was like to carve out a survival in the frozen earth of Azgeda territory. Where even a twitch might have meant the difference between life and death.

Abby turns to her next patient. An older woman with tawny brown skin and braided black hair, streaked through with silver. Abby thinks she recognizes her from back on the Ark. Edrina Cole. She’d been a follower of Kane’s mother. Abby remembers seeing her often, praying at the Tree of Life.

She checks Edrina over thoroughly: listens to her lungs, takes her pulse and blood pressure, measures her reflexes, tests whatever she can within the limited medical supplies they’ve been able to cobble together or scavenge. No major health concerns, as far as Abby can tell. She has a nasty gash on the side of her neck, but it’s largely healed already. It’ll scar, deep and jagged, but there’s no risk of infection.

“Okay, you’re all done here,” Abby tells her eventually. “If you ask one of the uniformed guards by the exit, they can show you the way to your temporary accommodation.”

The woman rises stiffly, giving Abby no more than a nod of thanks before heading out the way she had come.

Abby lets out a rough sigh and checks the length of the line. At least a dozen people are still awaiting attention.

“Okay, next!” she calls.

A young man with puffed-up brown hair and pink in his cheeks strides up to her. At a glance he seems more animated than any other patient Abby has checked today. As a group, they’ve been healthy, but haunted. Hardened by a winter in enemy territory, and not yet able to believe they’re somewhere safe. Somewhere protected.

The man in front of her has the same look in his eye, the same guarded expression, but it’s overshadowed by a smile of genuine joy. She feels like she should recognize him, but doesn’t. Maybe he’s grown too much since they were on the Ark. She offers him a hand.

“I’m Abby.”

He takes her hand, his smile stretching. “Bryan. But I know who you are, Chancellor.”

The title still sometimes throws Abby for a loop, but she shakes it off and carries out the same checks on Bryan.

“How’m I looking?” he asks her about midway through the exam.

“Blood pressure normal, your pupil responses are good. As far as I can tell, you're doing fine. You might actually be better nourished than we are.”

“Farm station, Chancellor. We make sure to eat our veggies.”

Abby squints at him, trying to decide whether he's teasing her. Well, joke or not, he's right. Whatever Farm Station has been living on, they've done better pulling nutrients out of the earth than Arkadia has.

She completes her exam without further comment. Just as she's about to release him, she looks up to find they're not alone. Nathan Miller has pulled up a spare chair beside Bryan.

“Everything okay?” He asks, his eyes darting to the thermometer still in Bryan’s mouth.

“He's looking good,” Abby answers easily, plucking the thermometer out from under Bryan’s tongue and noting the result (completely normal).

A smile of relief floods across Nathan’s face as he reaches out and runs a hand across the back of Bryan’s head.

“I’ll say he is,” Nathan mutters.

Bryan grins and lets out a huff of affectionate disdain. “You’re such a dork,” any insult completely belied by the adoring smile in his eyes.

Alright then. Abby looks between the two of them - Nathan smiling wider than Abby has ever seen from the earnest, quiet young man - and files that information away for future reference.

“You're free to go. Nathan, you can show him to the new quarters?”

Nathan scrunches up his face in mild disgust. Abby can't really blame him: the new accommodation is not ideal. Every scrap of leftover furs or remnant of century-old mouldy blanket had been pulled together and set down in the only undercover space they still have to spare: the Mess Hall. It's a zoo, and it won't be sustainable long term, but that’s a problem for another day, and for now they'll just have to make do.

“I'll take care of him,” Nathan says, taking Bryan by the hand. The two look about to leave, when Nathan clearly hesitates and seems to make his mind up about something.

He leans towards Abby with an air of conspiracy. “Uh, Chancellor, don't tell him I said anything, but have you seen Bellamy since he got back?”

Abby frowns, thinking back. “No. I'd heard he returned with Pike and Marcus... Is he-” she can't quite bring herself to voice the concern that is unexpectedly clawing at her throat. She can do so little, these days, to protect Clarke. The very least she can do is to watch over her daughter’s match.

“He's okay,” Nathan says slowly, “but he was pretty banged up when I saw him. I think he might have been stabbed. From the looks of it anyway. You might want to just, I dunno, check he's okay?”

From the tone of Nathan’s voice, he seems to think the stabbing is the least of Bellamy’s concerns, but it sounds like the most pressing issue to Abby.

“Stabbed?” Abby echoes faintly.

“Way I heard it, he found Clarke,” Nathan continues, a note of apology in his voice. “And he… He couldn't rescue her.”

It’s as though Miller has tipped a bucket of ice water over Abby’s head. Freezing terror courses through Abby, locking her joints and seizing her muscles.

“Rescue her?”

“I- oh _shit_ ,” Nathan says, forgetting himself. “You didn’t know.”

“Tell me now,” she has to over-enunciate the words to get them past her numb lips.

Immediately, Nathan looks as though he would rather be anywhere else in the world. “Chancellor, I only know what I’ve heard. It’s just gossip…”

“Well, clearly the rumour mill is churning well.” Abby bites through her words. “Tell me what you think you know.”

“Clarke’s been taken by the Ice Nation,” Nathan rushes, as though recognizing this is the only way to get out of the conversation. “There’s a bounty on her head, because she’s, like, magic, or something, according to Grounder culture. Because she destroyed the Mountain, I think. Anyway, the Ice Queen wants her. So Bellamy tracked her down, and found her, but then - and honestly, this is like third-hand information - whoever is holding her captive attacked him. That’s when he got stabbed, I assume.”

“Just to make sure I understand: Clarke has been captured by a bounty hunter, and is currently being taken by him to be a sacrifice to the Ice Nation Queen? Meanwhile, Bellamy tracked them down and was stabbed trying to save her?”

Nathan nods, visibly uncomfortable.

“Thank you, Nathan. You can go.”

 

**\--**

 

“Bellamy Blake!”

Abby catches sight of him, limping heavily past the entrance of the Medical Bay. Throwing down the chart she’d been checking, she stalks after him. She leans out the door, glaring at him from where he’s pulled up short in the hallway. “Why am I finding out that you were stabbed from other people?”

“It’s fine.” Bellamy shrugs, glancing down at his leg. “Pike stitched it up on our way back.”

“So you figured because you weren’t on death’s door anymore you didn’t need to report it? It could be infected. Get in here now.”

Bellamy reluctantly follows Abby back into the Medical Bay, where Jackson is finishing up the last examinations of the Farm Station arrivals.

Abby motions for Bellamy to sit down on the nearest bench. “Show me.”

Eyes sharp as a hawk, Abby watches him trying to use his makeshift cane as little as possible, wincing with the effort. It takes a bit of awkward shuffling before he’s able to settle on an examining table. Once he has, Bellamy gingerly slides his pants down over a heavy bandage. The dressing is already a day old, stained a deep crimson with his blood.

Abby carefully begins to unwind the bandage. “At the very least you should have come to see me for clean dressing.”

Bellamy’s eyes flick down to the bloody dressing in her hands and then immediately looks away as if he can’t face the sight of his own blood.

But he’s not being squeamish, Abby realizes. He just can’t face the colour of it. Either because it’s red or grey, it all comes to the same. Clarke is out of their reach now.

The wound looks clean and neat, that’s a relief. It should heal fine. The stitches are impressive too, it seems Pike’s Earth Skills extend to decent emergency medicine. She shouldn’t be surprised: of all the Farm Station people she’s seen today, many have suffered wounds, but none of them are septic. Pike’s done an admirable job of keeping his people alive. She wonders what other skills he may have hiding up his sleeve.

They are silent as Abby finishes up and wraps the wound in a fresh white bandage.

“I’m sorry Abby.”

Bellamy’s voice is rough and as Abby looks up at his face it’s clear what he’s apologizing for.

“Bellamy, it wasn’t-”

“Please don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault, because it sure wasn’t anybody else’s, and don’t tell me there was nothing else that could have been done, because there were lots of other things I could have done. Only I didn’t. I made a call and we lost her because of it.”

Bellamy stands, pulls on his pants and makes his way for the door.

“I don’t expect your forgiveness, I certainly don’t deserve that. I just needed you to know that I’m sorry.”

“We all have moments where we make the wrong call.” Abby’s voice halts him in the doorway. “And yes it costs us, but it doesn’t change the fact that you are a good man Bellamy. A good match.”

Bellamy meets her eye only for a second and it’s clear he doesn’t believe her. Doesn’t want to hear her.

 

\--

 

It’s late by the time Marcus finds her, still in Medical. She dismissed Jackson hours ago - to sleep, or to join the welcome party currently raging in the mess hall - but she’d stayed behind to read through Jackson’s reports on the rest of the intake from Farm Station.

She’d seen him coming a few minutes off: her own hair, thrown over one shoulder, flares auburn as he approaches.

“Abby?”

She smiles to herself as she hears him turn the corner into Medical and walk up to stand behind her chair, peering over her shoulder at the medical files laid out around her. His touch is soft at the back of her neck, thumbing gentle pressure into the knot of tension there.

“It’ll still be there tomorrow,” he says, leaning over the back of her chair to speak into the hollow of her ear. A shiver trembles down her spine.

“Sixty-three people,” Abby replies softly, gesturing to the files, “ages eight to seventy-one. All alive and moderately healthy. A case of asthma, one bruised rib, a broken collarbone. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“Nothing Pike couldn’t handle either, by the looks of things.”

Abby hums in agreement.

“We’ll be able to achieve so much, now that we have them back with us,” Kane continues. “Farmers Abby, it’s what I always said we need.”

Abby nods, leaning into Marcus’ touch as he continues his massage, hands moving down to the crook of her shoulder.

“Marcus, even with farmers, it might still not be enough. We might still not be able to grow crops this year.”

“So we’ll trade,” he says. “We have skills the Grounders don’t. We can build a place in their society.”

She loves him like this: conviction in his voice, and peace on his mind. He’s the same man, in many ways, that he was on the Ark, but where the Earth made many guarded and suspicious, it made Marcus optimistic. It fills her with warmth, a hope she would never have been able to find without him.

“Are the sleeping arrangements okay?” Abby asks after a moment of comfortable quiet.

Kane’s hands still briefly. “They’ll do, for now. We’ll need to discuss our options.”

“Maybe we can expand Arkadia?”

“With what materials? Wick and Sinclair are talented, but they’re not woodsmen. We don’t know how to build log cabins, and we don’t have the time to experiment.”

Abby considers this. There is an obvious answer: a safe haven, a fortress, a place with hundreds of beds. The Mountain must be the answer, but Marcus is hesitant, and Lincoln is wary, and many of Clarke’s people are downright hostile about the idea.

“We don’t need to decide tonight,” Abby concludes for now, too tired to keep turning it over.

Silence stretches, warm and sweet, between them for a while.

“I need to tell you something,” Marcus says after a minute. “About Clarke…”

Turning around in her chair, Abby moves away from Kane’s touch so that she can face him. She takes in the concern in his warm brown eyes, and the curls of his chestnut-brown hair, shot through with more grey than it had been a year ago.

“I already know,” she tells him. “I spoke to Bellamy.”

The sick, gnawing worry is back. Abby never feels more powerless than when she thinks about Clarke, alone, captive, very possibly dead. All while Abby is completely unable to help.

Kane nods, his eyes soft in apology. “I wanted to tell you sooner. It’s just been so busy, with Farm Station arriving, I’ve barely seen you. I’d hoped to find a quiet moment. I’m so sorry, Abby. I tried to bring her home. I wish I could have.”

“I know,” she assures him, “it’s not your fault.” She pauses a moment, thinking of Bellamy and the heartbreak in his young eyes. “He blames himself, for not bringing her back.”

Marcus reaches down, pressing a soft, agonizingly tender kiss to Abby’s temple. He speaks into her hair, his lips brushing against her skin, “I know.”

 

* * *

 

**Monty, February 12th 2150**

 

Monty leaves only after his mother’s gentle snoring fills their sleeping quarters. They had talked for hours, all day, and would have talked on into the night, but Monty could see how exhausted she was and insisted that she get some rest.

Thrilled as he is to have his mother back, he isn't sorry for the break. Reliving the last few months in stories was an emotional, exhausting task. Often he didn’t even know where to begin. It didn’t feel like the story of a few months, it felt like the story of a lifetime. He was a different person now than who he had been when he last spent this much time with his mother. He could tell when she looked at him that she expected to see the 15 year-old Monty who loved school and had never set foot in the Sky Box. He could never be that person for her again, all he had to do was hope that she could love this 17 year-old Monty who loved his friends and helped execute a mass genocide to save them.   

He finds his way to the mess hall, where a party is already in full swing. Farm Station are being welcomed with the only thing Arkadia really has to offer these days: large portions of moonshine. The floor of the mess has been covered in disgusting scraps of blanket. Using every inch of space, Monty supposes about forty or so of the new arrivals might be able to sleep in here. The rest - like Monty’s mom - must have people to stay with. He can’t imagine that turning the mess hall into sleeping quarters for dozens of people is going to work very well, but he’s sure Kane and Abby will come up with something.

Monty’s only made it about two steps inside when he sees them. There, in the centre of a small crowd, are Miller and Bryan. Monty’s heart thuds uncomfortably at the sight. His stomach twists itself into a knot, just like it had when he had seen them reunite earlier that day. Logically, he is furious at his body for having this reaction. Miller is his friend. Monty was the one who had been clear to draw the line at friendship, and if that was the case, then he should be happy for his friend. Happy that he has been reunited with someone he cares about. Monty has no rights over Miller. He has no right to be anything but happy for his friend.

Even with his brain trying to tell him this, he still finds himself making a beeline for the side exit. He sits down on a log outside, enjoying the steadying sensation of the cold night air.

He has not been sitting for more than a minute when Miller appears at the door.   

“Hey,” Miller calls as he approaches.

“Hey,” Monty echoes, desperately trying to tell his insides to calm down again.

“Can we talk for a second?”

Miller’s voice is full of meaning. Meaning that suddenly feels terrifying to Monty. So, as if keeping the conversation casual will somehow make this less painful, Monty responds lightly.

“Sure, about what?”

An expression flashes across Miller’s face of what looks like disappointment, but it’s hard to tell. Monty’s never been very good at reading Miller, and the look is gone as quickly as it came. Still, Monty is left regretting his keep-it-casual tactic already.

“Can I sit?”

Monty just nods as Miller sits down next to him on the log. In a rush, Monty remembers the last time they’d sat side-by-side on a bench, Miller’s fingers interlaced with Monty’s, just after they’d arrived home from Mount Weather. Just after Miller told him about his match. Just after Monty turned him down.

“I,” Miller starts, twisting his hands into a knot on his lap. “I should have told you about Bryan.”

The note of apology, of wrongdoing in Miller’s voice catches Monty off-guard. The last thing he wants is for Miller to feel bad. If anything, Monty’s sure he’s the one who has handled this all wrong. “There was nothing to say, you thought he was dead, we all did.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize,” Monty insists quickly. “There’s nothing to apologize for. We’re not- you don’t owe me anything.”  

As soon as the words come out of his mouth he wants to take them back. All he wanted was to make Miller feel better, but it’s clear instantly that he’s hurt him instead. _Monty how are you so bad at this?!_ he scolds himself.   

“Right,” Miller responds as the two fall into a tense silence.

Monty tries to think of something to say but everything he’s said so far has been wrong, so he’s not sure he trusts himself anymore.

Finally, Miller is the one to speak again. “How’s your mother?”

“Good.” Monty nods, grateful for the new topic. “Alive.”

“It’s crazy. These people we love coming back from the dead, it feels like something out of someone else’s lives. Someone with much better luck than us.”

 _People we love._ The words ring painfully in Monty’s ears. Nathan loves Bryan, and Bryan loves Nathan too. Of course he does, because what’s not to love? They’re not matched, and yet they can still love each other. Which leaves the obvious question: if Bryan doesn’t need colour to love Miller, why should Monty need it? The answer is, of course, that he doesn’t. Which means he’s been an absolute _idiot,_ scared to commit himself because he didn’t have something that he never needed in the first place. Except now it’s too late.

Monty looks over at Miller and sees in his face a spark of something. The same spark he had seen earlier as he watched the two of them laugh, and talk, and kiss. Miller is happy.

“Maybe our luck is changing,” Monty offers.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all enjoying the story so far, lots more to come! As always we love hearing your thoughts :)


	5. February 13th and February 14th 2150: A Long Day’s Journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanging out with our buddies Murphy and Clarke today, more from the rest of the gang tomorrow.

 

**Murphy, February 13th 2150**

 

Wherever Murphy is, sunlight is bursting through his closed eyelids. The bright, insistent light drags him back into a groggy consciousness. Thoughts trickle through his brain like the last drops in a bottle of whiskey. He thinks he’s been asleep, or maybe drugged. His arms feel like lead weights, his skin stretched too tight across his bones, his head pounding with a deep rhythmic pain. Every inch of him aches. Even his nail beds thrum with the phantom pain of long-healed wounds.

Where is he? How long has he been out? When did he last eat? Is he about to get shot or stabbed or tortured again?

If he could only summon the energy to open his eyes, Murphy might be able to get answers to at least some of these questions. Only that would just take so much damn energy, and he’s not sure it would be worth the effort. Wherever he is, however long he’s been asleep, whatever his risk of getting murdered, does any of it really matter? Either way, he’ll die sooner or later. He’s never going to get back to Camp-fucking-Jaha, and It’s not like there’s anything worth going back to anyway.

Unbidden, his wasted mind conjures Emori’s face. Her expression as he’d last seen her: determined and brave and maybe just a little bit sorry. Her breath against his ear, directing him to the City of Light. He imagines her, turning from him toward the golden sandy hills of the desert, setting off with her brother. _Take me with you_ , he wants to shout. _Don’t leave me_. He remembers the rush of grey as she left, like she’d been a dam holding back the flood.

Suddenly, he wants to find Emori. He wants to see her knowing smirk and feel the pressure of her eyes on him when he looks up at a burning blue sky. He wants to recapture the feeling she gave him: that maybe, he just might belong somewhere after all. It feels so fucking good to _want_ something. It’s not the same as wanting to survive, or wanting to get out of that stupid lighthouse. It’s _desire_ , powerful enough for him to drag himself into a seated position and open his eyes.

He finds himself staring into Thelonious Jaha’s dark eyes, inches from Murphy’s face. “Good morning John.”

In an instant, Murphy snaps from barely-awake to fully panicked, swearing as adrenaline surges from zero to sixty through his veins. He flinches back in shock, ramming his body hard against the back of a white couch. Breathing shallowly, Murphy looks around, trying to piece together as much as he can about his surroundings. He’s on a soft white couch. He must have been sleeping on it. The room around him is open and airy, beautiful in an empty kind of way. It’s not Murphy’s taste, but there’s bright midday light streaming through a large window on the other side of the room, lighting up him and Jaha like a damn Renaissance painting. There’s a grand piano in one corner of the living room and a bricked up fireplace behind him. He’s in someone’s living room. That’s… different.

Jaha is sitting on a glass coffee table in front of the couch. Maybe he’d only just come in and seen Murphy stirring, or maybe he’s been watching Murphy for hours. He has no way of knowing, and decides not to think about it.

“Is this the City of Light mansion?” Murphy manages at last.

“Yes, John. We are guests here.”

Okay, he doesn’t like the sound of that. Reaching up, Murphy runs an agitated hand through his hair… and stops. His fingers slide too easily through his hair. Months in the lighthouse had turned his hair halfway to dreadlocks, but now it feels soft and smooth and… shorter?

“Did you…” Murphy chokes, too horrified to finish the sentence. He swallows and tries again. “Did you wash my hair?”

Jaha blinks, as though he thinks that’s irrelevant. “Focus John, there’s much to share with you about the City of Light.”

“I already know all about them,” Murphy snaps, momentarily distracted from the hygiene question. “The lighthouse had an archive. Jaha, do you know what she did? Alie -”

The sentence dies in his throat as a woman enters the room from over Jaha’s shoulder. Dressed just the same as when he’d seen her earlier, in a dress of leather, stamped over the heart with the logo of the City of Light. Terror grips Murphy’s heart like a vice. Forgetting even his hatred for Jaha, Murphy reaches out, grabbing the other man’s arm.

“We have to get the hell out of here - do you _know_ -?”

“I know that Alie has a mission of peace, John,” Jaha replies, his tone unerringly calm.

“Oh, shit.” He slumps momentarily on the couch, feeling desperately lonely. “She’s already got you hooked.”

“The world was always meant to be seen in colour,” Alie cuts in from her position by the door. Her accent is strange and halting, not just dated, but as though she’d forgotten how to speak and is slowly reminding herself. “Here,” she continues, “I’ll… show you.”

She takes a step forward, producing a vial from the pocket of her dark dress. The white powder glints in the sun. Murphy vaults up and over the back of the couch in his desperation to put as much distance as possible between himself and the drug in Alie’s hand.

“That shit _killed the world_!” he shouts. It’s a waste of oxygen, he knows, preaching to an addict and his dealer, but he has to try. “Don’t you get it? You can’t mess with fate like that. It kills people. If it doesn’t make them catatonic, the withdrawal turns them into _psychopaths!_ Your drug caused a nuclear war!”

Alie folds her hands in front of her, the vial disappearing from view. “This is not a drug, John. It’s medicine. All medicine requires clinical trial.” Her voice is infuriatingly calm, as though Murphy didn’t just accuse her of genocide. “Last time, the effects of withdrawal were… more significant… than we had anticipated, but that will not be a problem this time.”

“Why the fuck not?” Murphy asks in spite of himself.

She smiles at him blithely, and fuck if that isn’t more terrifying than a Grounder with a machete. “Because this time, we will not run out. I have been busy while you have been away. There will be enough medicine, this time, to last for over a century.”

 _This time?_ Reeling, Murphy has to grab a hold of the back of the couch to keep upright. He should probably eat something, at some point. _Not here_ , his mind screams _, eat nothing she gives you_.

“So that’s what you’ve been doing, for a _century_ , just hanging out here cooking up a storm?”

Again, her eerie smile. “That’s one way of phrasing it, yes. I must have lost track of time. I thought....” she frowns, her head cocking a little to one side. “Thelonious, here, has been telling me about your people, and those you call Grounders. I did not realize that so many survived the accident. You are the first people I have seen for… a very long time.”

“Come on, John,” Jaha cuts in, standing from the table. “We have a lot of work to do.”

And yeah, he _definitely_ doesn’t like the sound of this. “What’s your plan?” he asks, and he doesn’t want to know, he really never wanted anything to do with shit like this.

Right about now even the fucking lighthouse is sounding tempting when Jaha says, “We’re going to cure colour blindness, John.”

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, February 13th 2150**

 

They walk through the night, past streams and through unfamiliar valleys and over cresting hills. They walk beyond the territory Clarke explored during her months alone. Hours pass in silence. She tries to judge their direction by the position of the stars, and thinks they might be heading East, but on more than one occasion it seems to Clarke that her captor is taking her a long, circuitous route deliberately to disorient her. Whether it’s his intention or not, it works. By the time the sun is rising around them, the sky lightening to an ash grey, Clarke is thoroughly lost.

Abruptly, the man pulls her to a stop under the shade of a wide tree.

“What-?” Clarke stops when she sees him pulling out a sack from a pocket of his belt. “No!”

The man shoves the bag over her head. Her nostrils fill with the scent of dust and mouldy burlap, the fabric scratching against the skin of her cheeks “This isn’t necessary!” Clarke can’t help arguing.

She isn’t surprised when the man ignores her. After the incident with Bellamy in the cave, her captor seems to have lost any interest in speaking with her. Instead, he just grabs her by the arm and pulls her along with him, her feet tripping awkwardly over the ground she can no longer see.

A spike of real fear pierces Clarke’s heart. This is it, there’s really no way out. Bellamy isn’t coming to rescue her, no one is, and she’s about to be delivered to her death. What will the Ice Queen be like? Will she let Clarke die standing, maybe even with a means of fighting back? Will it be quick, or will it be drawn out like Gustus? Will she even take off the burlap sack? With a cold wave of terror, Clarke wonders whether she’s ever going to see the world again.

She notices as soon as they enter the town. Even if she can’t see them, she can feel the presence of other people around her. She notices the press of her captor’s hands, walking close to her, keeping her body bent low. It feels, somehow, like they’re sneaking in, though Clarke couldn’t say for sure. If this is the Azgeda city, it feels different to how she expected. Warmer, for one thing. There’s a crisp breeze in the air, filtering through the netting of the sack, but no crunch of snow under foot, only the soft give of her boots on muddy ground. There’s no sign of her breath in the air, or the gentle numbing of her toes. Shouldn’t the Ice Nation have more ice?

When Clarke hits the first step, she stops walking, resisting the pull of her captors arms. Are these _stairs_? Clarke reaches out with her boot and nudges one, then finds the next above it. Unmistakably, it’s a staircase. “Where are we?” she snaps at her captor.

“We’re nearly there,” he tells her. “Come on, she’s waiting.” He reaches under her hood to pull her gag back into place. Clarke chokes against the damp, sweaty fabric, which pulls hard against the corners of her lips.

With no other choice, she begins to mount the staircase. She distracts herself by cataloguing all she knows about their location. They’re in a stairwell, that much is obvious. These aren’t the kind of uneven stone steps that could have been built by hand, they’re even, smooth, and regular, made with machines that haven’t worked in nearly a century. They must be in a building, then, the air too stale, the echo of Clarke’s feet on the stairs too close for them to be outside. And it’s tall. They climb for a long time, until Clarke’s knees are creaking and her thighs burn with the effort. They must be as high as the Mountain had been deep.

Before Clarke knows what’s happening, her captor’s hand is hard on her back, and she’s being pushed forward. She can see light again, filtering through the weaving of the bag, and hear the murmurs of people on either side of her.

“ _Wanheda, kom ai don swega klin._ ” He’d promised he would deliver her, and now he has.

He pushes Clarke to her knees, and suddenly the bag is gone again, her eyes burning in the rush of piercing daylight. She squints against the sun, trying to get her first glimpse of the Ice Queen, and sees…

“Hello Clarke.” Lexa’s voice is exactly how she remembers it, smooth and firm.

She listens to Lexa address her captor over her head - it was _Lexa_ who ordered her found and captured and brought to her like an animal? - and feels the rage, the betrayal, the hatred, as sharply as she had the last time they laid eyes on each other, in the shadow of the Mountain.

Her captor, Prince Roan of Azgeda, is hauled away by a pair of guards. Clarke feels at once a spark of satisfaction and a strange sense of camaraderie: now they both know how fickle the Commander can be.

“Leave us,” Lexa commands with a lazy wave of her arms. Clarke continues to watch in silence as the room empties.

She is trying to make sense of this, but she can’t. “Sorry,” Lexa tells her as two of her guards haul Clarke to her feet, “but it had to be this way. I needed to make sure that _Wanheda_ didn’t fall into the hands of the Ice Queen. War is brewing Clarke, I need you.”

And that is fucking _it._ Clarke has had it. She’s been bound and blindfolded, half-drowned and beat up. She watched Bellamy take a knife to the thigh for her, and then left him to bleed out in a pool of expanding crimson blood. She’s been dragged through forests and across plains and up a damn tower, and why? Because Lexa _needs her_.

Enraged, Clarke spits into Lexa’s face, relishing in the fleck of spittle that lands on the Commander’s cheek.

She screams as the guards haul her away, threats and curses and promises for vengeance, and she can’t help feeling that she would have prefered to take her chances with the Ice Queen.

 

* * *

 

**Murphy, February 13th 2150**

 

Standing at the edge of the sea, staring out at the swirling grey waves, Murphy feels trapped. He has zero desire to return to camp, and zero desire to cross the river with a drug pusher. Maybe he’ll go back to the desert and wander around like a nomad. Maybe he’ll double back to the mansion and burn Alie’s whole operation to the ground. He would have already, if he thought that would work. Except she already has more than enough of the drug, slung in a large duffle bag across Jaha’s shoulders, to do plenty of damage either way. Also Murphy really has no idea what bruning the drug would do, and he can’t risk risk making it airborne.

The motor of a small boat is rumbling across the water, twice as loud in the otherwise silent evening. He watches Alie and Jaha approach the edge of the river, Jaha waving the boat towards them.

“You’re leaving?” Murphy asks.

“So are you,” Jaha replies easily.

“Not with you, I’m not.”

Alie looks at Murphy with open curiosity on her face. “You do not need to be so angry, John Murphy. You do not need to feel so alone. I could help you-”

“I’m good,” Murphy snaps.

“Don’t you want to see the world as it was meant to be seen?”

Murphy is about to snap that he _likes black and white just fine, thanks_ , when he draws up short. The boat is arriving at the beach and with it, a wide floodlight, illuminating the bank of the river. The last thing Murphy expected was to see the gentle wash of rich blue waves lapping against the stony shore.

His first thought, sharp and terrified, is that Alie managed to drug him after all. How? When did she have the chance?

But then-

“John? I don’t believe it!”

Staring into the flare of the boat’s light - and when did it become so yellow? - John can just make out the silhouette of someone on board.

His stomach lurches. “Emori?”

And it’s not fair. That after all this, Alie and Jaha actually have managed to provide him with the only person in the world he wants to see. Even accidentally, they did bring colour back to his life.

“What are you waiting for?” She grins at him, and he finds himself wondering for the first time whether his match might be reciprocated. “Come on!”

He doesn’t hesitate. Of course he’ll go with her. Because he wants to, and because no way in hell is he going to leave her alone with Jaha and Alie.

 

\--

 

The dark water rolls underneath them, reeling past in short-crested waves. Murphy sits on the edge of the port side, his feet crossed on the wooden deck, his chest braced against a rusting metal support rail. He’s tempted to lean over the side, to run his fingers through the rushing water, but he remembers all too well what kind of monsters live in that water, and no way he’s risking it. He’s content to stay put, all limbs firmly on board. Wrapping his arms around the railing, he relishes the fresh air whipping at his face, numbing his cheeks, ruffling his hair.

She arrives at his side with a shuffling of feet and a flare of silver moonlight.

“Hey.” Emori takes up a seat on his right, mimicking his position and peering at him. The wind catches her from behind, billowing her hair in all directions.

And it’s still so unexpected, _she’s_ so unexpected. Her smooth brown skin, darker in the moonlight than it had been in the harsh desert sun, the spots of vivid red on her cheeks from where the wind has rubbed the skin raw, even the dark lines of her tattoo - how can even _black_ look different? It’s so strange, so wonderfully weird, and he can’t help staring at her.

“What’s up with you?” Emori asks. She narrows her sharp chestnut eyes at him. “You’re not still mad about the-” she mimes hitting him upside the head, her closed fist swiping harmlessly against his temple “-thing, are you?”

“I never was, really,” he answers with a shrug. “You had your reasons.” And what is it about her that pulls all the truth out of him? He would hand her every truth he has on a silver platter, just because she asks. It should scare him, this hold she has over him, but it doesn’t.

She throws him a crooked smile and settles down beside him, her arm brushing his as she props herself up against the metal railing. He notes - with a warm glow of what feels absurdly like pride - that she’s stopped covering her left hand.

They sit in silence for a while, looking out at the eastern horizon. There’s nothing to see but water, the crest of waves, and the sky, fit to bursting with stars. In the moonlight, Murphy might almost think the night was colourless, but for Emori’s warm profile.

When she speaks, her voice is picked up on the wind and carried to him. “So if not that, then what?”

“What, what?” Murphy asks.

Their eyes meet, and Murphy wonders what she sees when she looks at him.

“What’s the matter?” Her expression is kind, genuinely concerned, and it hurts in a way Murphy can’t quite put into words.

He used to spend so much time imagining that he got to tell Emori about the City of Light and their drug to cure the world. Now that he finally has the chance, Murphy really has no idea how to begin.

Emori leans a little closer, her eyes suddenly intent. “You don’t seem to like our new friend Alie.”

“She’s not my friend,” Murphy spits.

She sits back again, her voice measured. “So I see.”

They lapse into silence for a while. Behind him, Emori’s brother guns the motor, steering blindly into the darkness from his position at the back of the boat. Murphy listens to the roar of the little engine and the lapping of the water under his feet.

“Motorboat is a hell of a better way to travel than what we had last time,” he tells her.

“How’d you get across last time?”

“A rowboat. It was…” _horrifying, dangerous, the stuff of nightmares_ “…slower.”

Murphy cuts his gaze to the opposite side of the boat, where Alie and Jaha are sitting together on a low steel bench, heads bent together. He remembers Jaha, tossing that poor bastard overboard. Remembers him demanding that Murphy keep rowing. Remembers his conviction that the City of Light would be their salvation. Murphy looks at him and Alie now, deep in conversation, and shudders to think what they might be discussing.

Picking up on the thread of Murphy’s thoughts, Emori asks, “who is she? Alie.”

“It’s, uh, kind of a long story.”

Emori shifts her position, leaning back on her hands and tipping her gaze towards the sky. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” And he meant to sound teasing, or flirtatious, but he thinks he just sounded a little pathetic.

She looks back at him, a smile tugging on her pink lips. “You’re stuck with me, John Murphy.”

The knot of tension in his chest eases.

“The City of Light isn’t a place, it’s an organisation,” he begins. “A group of activists.” Emori raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt.

He takes a breath, and tells her everything he knows.

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, February 14th 2150**

 

“Clarke?”

“Go away.”

“Clarke.”

Lexa’s voice filters, low and plaintive, through the door of Clarke’s room. No, not room. Cell. Her prison. A pair of guards have been standing at attention outside her door all night, refusing to let her leave. No amount of feather down pillows or soft lighting could dress this place up as anything but a prison cell.

“Fuck _off_ Lexa!” Clarke snaps back again.

She knows she’s being peevish and obstinate, but she can’t, at the moment, bring herself to care. It’s been hours now, Lexa knocking at intervals, sometimes commanding, sometimes pleading, sometimes impatient. All through the night and into the early hours of this morning, Lexa has been outside Clarke’s door.

“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually,” Lexa argues. Clarke can picture her on the other side of the door, her eyes free of makeup, her hands curled into fists in irritation.

Clarke knows Lexa’s right. Eventually, she will need to face Lexa again. Some part of her would like to see how long she can hold out, how difficult she can be before Lexa resorts to breaking down the door and just flat out forcing Clarke to speak with her. Huffing out a sigh, Clarke goes to the door and unlatches it.

Clarke moves away from the door immediately, to stand by the room’s wide open window. It’s drafty and cold, the morning air sharp and vicious this high up, but Clarke’s willing to put up with it. It puts the most amount of distance possible between her and Lexa, which at the moment feels like the priority.

Clarke wants to huddle into her jacket, to wrap her arms around herself for warmth, but she knows it would make her look weak. She will not falter in front of Lexa, so she forces her arms to her sides, thrusting her chin up and her eyes level.

“What do you want?”

Lexa enters the room cautiously, as though surprised to find herself inside. As though she hasn’t just been spending a whole night trying to knock the door down. Her long fingers fiddle absentmindedly with the metal zip of her leather jacket.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“Spare me the civilities.” Clarke suddenly feels exhausted.

How did she even end up here? Bound and gagged and dragged to the very last person on Earth that Clarke wanted to see. When Lexa had left her at the Mountain, completely alone, a fortress standing between her and her people, Clarke did not expect they would see each other again. Maybe not ever, certainly not so soon.

Lexa’s hands drop from her zipper. She looks so young, as tired as Clarke feels, guilt etched in the panes of her face. Good. She _should_ be sorry.

“Clarke…” The way she says Clarke’s name, like a prayer, sends an uncomfortable shiver down Clarke’s spine.

“Why am I here?” Clarke gives into the urge to cross her arms over her chest.

“I was trying to protect you-”

“By sending a _bounty hunter_ after me?”

“Yes. The Ice Queen will kill you if she gets the chance. The opportunity to take the power of _Wanheda_ -”

“If the Queen wants to come for me, let her try.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” Lexa snaps. “If the Azgeda succeed in undermining the treaty-”

“That’s your problem. I have no interest in being a pawn in your political games.”

“You are no pawn.” The vehemence of Lexa’s reply stuns Clarke for a moment. “This is bigger than you think, Clarke. Whether you like it or not, what happens to the Clans affects your people, and what happens to you affects us. You live in this world now, if you want to find a place in it for your people, we will need to learn to work together-”

A derisive laugh bursts from Clarke before she can think better of it. “Are you kidding me? Us, work together? You’re out of your mind.”

“I know you’re mad-”

Clarke can’t take it anymore, can’t take this conversation, can’t take standing here, listening to this as though _Lexa_ is the reasonable one. Her blood is boiling, her ears are ringing, she cannot take another _second_ of this.

“YOU LEFT ME!”

“Yes.” There is remorse there, in Lexa’s eyes, but her posture is sure, her voice firm. “I did. I left you.”

“So then how could you possibly think I would have any interest in working together?”

“Because you would have done the same, and you know it. You can be angry with me, Clarke, that’s fine. But I made the right choice for my people, and I know that if you had had the chance - if the Mountain Men had offered you the same deal - you would have taken it.”

Clarke wants to protest, wants to shout, wants to say _something_. But her mouth is dry, her throat closed tight, and all words escape her.

“You know how I know?” Lexa continues, unrepentant. “Because you raised the Mountain to dust in order to save your people. You slaughtered every man, woman and child inside to rescue the people you love. If the choice had come down to stabbing me through the heart or saving your people, you would have done it without blinking.”

Lexa has been advancing across the room without Clarke noticing. She stands now, strong and sure only inches away.

Clarke’s blood is roiling with an emotion she can’t face, something big and terrible and horrifying.

“It was only because of you that I was forced to kill all those people in the first place-” she chokes out.

The sorrow on Lexa’s face is genuine and painful. “I know.”

“So, if you’re just going to betray me as soon as it’s convenient, how can you expect me to trust you?” Clarke bites.

“Because nothing like that will ever happen again.”

Clarke’s laugh is livid and humourless. “Right.”

Lexa presses forward again, her eyes wide and intent. “Clarke, even though I made the right choice for my people, it was still the _wrong choice_. If I could do it over again, you must believe I would not make the same decision.” Her hand rises as though to grab Clarke’s arm, but Clarke flinches away from her touch, stepping back to put more distance between them.

“Must I?” Clarke counters sharply. “Your words don’t mean shit, Lexa. If you really wanted to atone for the Mountain, you would let me leave.”

“Clarke, this _is_ me trying to atone.”

“Really, because it looks to me like you’re keeping me locked up here so that the Ice Queen can’t get to me. Just another example of you making the best choice for your people and trying to pass it off like you give a damn about me.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Stop trying to bullshit me, Lexa. Nothing’s changed-”

“Everything has changed!” Lexa throws her hands up in clear frustration. “Clarke, don’t you understand? The best thing for my people would be for me to kill you!”

Skittering and harsh, Lexa’s words are a loaded gun, spinning across the floor to land at Clarke’s feet.  

“Publically.” Lexa adds as an afterthought into the heavy silence. “The best thing I could do right now would be to drag you out by your hair, bound and gagged, onto the steps of Polis Tower and stab you through the heart. At dawn, right as the market stalls are being assembled. Your death would subdue the traitorous whispers among the dissenting Clans. Your death would pass the strength of the _Wanheda_ onto me. No one would question my position, no one would challenge my rule as Commander, or ever again suggest seceding from the treaty. Nia’s pathetic grumblings would fall on deaf ears, and my peace would finally take hold. Even Arkadia would be easier to subdue with all twelve Clans at my back. Your death, Clarke, would save us all.”

Clarke has no answer to this, no idea what she could possibly say. Is she supposed to offer herself up? To fight? To jump out the window behind her? What game, exactly, is Lexa trying to play?

“So, is that why you’re keeping me here?” Clarke asks. She’s scared, she doesn’t want to die, but she allows none of that to bleed into her question.

Lexa’s voice is blindsiding in its kindness when she replies, simply, “no.” As though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“No?”

“No, Clarke, I am not going to kill you. I am not now, nor will I ever, allow any harm to come to you. I am keeping you here to protect you.”

“Why?” _Why would you try to protect me? Why wouldn’t you just kill me? What are you getting out of this?_

“Because, just once, I need to do what’s right for _me_ , not for my people. I have lost enough, I refuse to lose you too. Your grudge against me is justified. I have done many things to hurt you, but I hope you will give me the chance to make it up to you.

Lexa steps back again, retreating slowly back to the door. “I don’t expect you to decide right now. Think over what I have said. I have ordered the guards removed from your door. I hope, in time, I can regain the trust I lost at the Mountain.”

“I can’t promise the same,” Clarke replies, feeling somehow defensive. “I need to do what’s right for my people.”

“I expect nothing less,” Lexa acknowledges with a nod.

Clarke stands frozen, listening as Lexa’s footsteps fade away down the hall.

 

* * *

 

**Murphy, February 14th, 2150**

 

They moor the boat in a marsh. Murphy is already so thoroughly lost that his only choice, really, is to follow the rest of the traveling party off onto the beach.

“Why didn’t we take this route last time?” he asks the open air. “Fewer landmines and wastelands, seems like maybe someone should have told us this was an option.”

He takes in the sweeping mountains, the crisp sparkling blue water, and the lush green forests. It’s a prettier route too, but he keeps that one to himself. From the corner of his eye, he watches Emori load up a backpack, and hand Alie’s effects down to her from where she stands, still and serene, on the stony bank. If Emori has any desire to admire the beauty of the landscape, she seems to be keeping it to herself.

Instead, she looks up just long enough to shoot Murphy a smirk. “Only way to get out here’s by water, and that sad little rowboat you took last time couldn’t have made the journey. Did you have a motorboat stashed away somewhere you didn’t mention last time?”

“No, but apparently you did. Who’d you steal this thing from, anyway?”

“We didn’t steal, we purchased it. Alie here,” Emori gives the witch a curt nod, “has paid us handsomely to guide her back to civilization. We’ve gone legit, John.”

He laughs. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Her answering smile is smooth and flirtatious. “I guess you’ll just have to keep a close eye on me,” she says, stepping into his space and fixing him with a challenging look.

And yeah, Murphy is so screwed.

Alie and Jaha seat themselves imperiously in a low clearing while Murphy, Otan, and Emori set about collecting the firewood and food they’ll need to camp for the night. Murphy watches Alie carefully. Some part of him is sure that at any moment she’ll spring into action and shove that stupid powder back into his face, but for the most part she doesn’t seem that bothered about Otan, Emori or him. She checks her supplies - Murphy clocks a large metal case, locked and secured, containing what he assumes is just a tiny portion of her supply.

Jaha, meanwhile, is completely fucking useless. He just _sits_ there, not even speaking with Alie anymore. When they first arrived on shore, Murphy watched him consume another portion of the drug, and then off he went to la-la land, or - to hear him tell it - the _city of light_. As though giving his drug-induced hallucinations a fancy name makes it real. Fucking maniac.

“Have you really been to the City of Light?” Otan asks suddenly, breaking the quiet.

Murphy looks over to find him crouching in front of Jaha, his face mostly hidden, but his eyes shining and eager.

“Shut up, Otan,” Emori drawls in response, “don’t listen to that again.”

“Easy for you to say,” Otan snaps back at her, “why should you get to see colour when I can’t, huh?”

Almost against his will, Murphy’s eyes snap to her. His heart is pounding awkwardly in his chest, and he really shouldn’t hope, no good can come from hoping... but Emori is blushing, crimson and furious and so unfairly gorgeous, as she glares at her brother. And _maybe_ -

Jaha has barely acknowledged Otan’s presence, but Alie has risen from her position by his side. “Come,” she places an arm around his shoulders and guides him away from the clearing, “walk with me.”

Emori looks like she wants to protest, but holds back, dropping instead to a crouch beside the pile of firewood. She glares at Alie’s retreating back. “Not a believer in your employer’s cause?” Murphy asks, coming to stand over her.

“Nothing to believe _in_ ,” Emori replies tersely. “A drug isn’t a cause, it isn’t restoring the social order. It’s a lie.”

Murphy hums, crouching down beside her. “So what are you planning to do about it?”

She grins at him, a mischievous glint in her eye. “We could take her stash. It could probably go for a hell of a price.”

“Last time the drug was introduced into the population, the world ended,” Murphy points out.

Emori seems to weigh this. “Okay, fine. So what do you want to do?”

“Personally, I’d quite like to dump that shit in the marsh, but I don’t see what that would accomplish. She’ll have more. Plus dumping the drug in the water might not stop it from working on any idiot who drinks the water.”

“Alright then genius, what’s your plan?”

Murphy’s plan is awful, but it’s working for him: “we get the hell out of dodge. You, me, Otan, we just straight up leave. Since when are the crazy drug pushers our problem?”

Emori looks at him flatly. “That’s it?”

“Plans aren’t really my forte-”

“You don’t even want to kill Alie on our way out?”

“I thought about it, but I’m trying this new thing where I don’t just straight up murder people who annoy me.”

“Oh,” Emori quirks an eyebrow at him, “how’s that working out for you?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Have you two been to the City of Light?” Jaha is suddenly alert again. He’s stood up, and is walking slowly towards the pair of them.

“Oh yeah, man, I’ve been. Got the tshirt, sent a postcard. It’s great.”

Jaha frowns at him.

“Leave them, Thelonious,” Alie calls imperiously, emerging suddenly from the tall grasses with Otan in tow. “They are not ready to join us yet.” She looks between them, a knowing smile crossing her creepy face. “Perfect matches think we have nothing to offer, but they’ll see in time: we provide more than just colour. We provide _peace_.”

Murphy’s stopped listening, his mind reeling over and over Alie’s words. _Perfect matches_? _Perfect_ \- he chances a look at Emori, who is also staring at him. Awkward, like children at one of those Ark dances, they gaze at each other.

“Uh, so… you?” Emori tries after a moment. The violent, ridiculously attractive blush is back in her cheeks and Murphy actually can’t take it.

He beams. He doesn’t think he’s smiled like this in a long, long time. Maybe ever. He probably looks like an idiot, but when Emori smiles back Murphy finds he doesn’t care. She breaks away from his gaze after a moment, the flush on her cheeks cooled to a sustained glow of pleasure. _I caused that_ , Murphy can’t help but thinking. It fills him with an unexpected warmth.

“Otan, don’t you dare laugh-” Emori says, casting an eye out for her brother.

He is seated at Jaha’s side, their expressions matching glazes of sightless bliss. _Crap_. There go the escape plans.

 


	6. February 26th 2150: The New Normal

**Harper, February 26th 2150**

 

Harper decides, three cups of moonshine down, that she approves of Bryan.

In fairness, she’d approved of him pretty much as soon as they’d met. The effect of his arrival on Miller has been striking and, for Harper anyway, such a relief. She hadn’t known until now that Miller could laugh so often and so loud.

She grins at the pair of them from across the fire they’d set up towards the edge of Arkadia’s main square. Since Farm Station’s arrival nearly two weeks ago, camp has been overflowing. The Mess is cramped and crowded, too full to fit everyone at dinner anymore. So Harper, Miller, Bryan and Monroe built a campfire outside to have dinner around. Gradually, they’d managed to convince everyone else to join them: Gina and Bellamy, Raven, Monty, Lincoln and Octavia, even Jasper. One by one they had gathered around the massive bonfire, sparking and hot enough to keep the February chill at bay. Bryan had built the fire - taller and faster than any of the rest of them could have managed.

Dinner is, as always, dried meat - but this time with a whole handful of dried berries too! It’s a loud, almost fun affair. Jasper is still sullen and distant, and Raven is as sharp around the edges as ever, but neither of them have actively attacked anyone, so Harper still counts that as a win. Sometimes Harper thinks that she and Raven might have been friends, in another life. But Raven is too closed off, her heart protected by walls and barbed wire and landmines that Harper doesn’t think she has any chance of getting through it to the potential friend beneath.

As the meal winds down, conversation turns, inevitably, to the events of tomorrow. After days of holding patterns, they’re finally ready to take action: Farm Station is moving to Mount Weather. At the same time, Abby and Kane are attending some Grounder conference or summit or something in Polis. Partly to request permission to colonize the Mountain (while also begging forgiveness for already having done it), and partly to discuss trade options. And Harper thinks partly to bring Clarke home? She’s unsure on that point, and hasn’t been in a hurry to ask, since either way it’s bound to be a sore subject.

Anyway, it’ll be nice to finally be doing something after taking so long to regroup and assess options. Not that _Harper_ has actually been involved in the ‘assessing options’ conversations. Of course not. Because if anyone had asked her, she would have said that colonizing the Mountain is a barbaric and lunatic idea. Seems to Harper it will not only piss off the massive Ice Nation contingent that has threateningly set up shop a couple of miles north of here, but it’s also just completely morbid and creepy. All the ‘tactical advantages’ can go and shove it up their ass as far as she’s concerned. Colonizing a mass grave is fucked up, that’s all there is to it.

She knows the other surviving members of the 48 agree with her, but that’s why no one’s asked. They’re not exactly impartial on this point. So, fine, Pike can go lay claim to the Mountain, become the next Mountain King. Because it worked out so well for the last guy. For her part, Harper’s pinning more of her hopes on Kane’s peace talks.

“Man, I would have almost been willing to put up with the Ice Nation if it meant you guys got regular access to winter berries up where you were camped,” Monroe says to Bryan, luxuriating in her log seat.

Bryan lets out a sarcastic laugh. “You wouldn’t, trust me. But glad the berries help, anyway.” He picks one from off his plate. Tossing it over Miller’s head, it lands with impressive accuracy directly onto Monroe’s empty plate.

She flashes him a toothy grin in response.

“Hey, share the love, man,” Gina pipes up from her position on the other side of the fire, holding up one hand as though to catch a berry.

She and Bellamy, his leg almost healed, have taken up residence on a wide tree stump, Bellamy sprawled halfway across her lap. Idly, Gina is running her other hand through Bellamy’s tangled curls. He still looks a little worse for wear, his eyes wide and haunted, but he melts into Gina. She seems to ground him, in some small way, and that’s something. More than most of them get these days.

“Fresh out,” Bryan lies with an easy smile, stuffing one berry into his own mouth, and popping the last into Miller’s. “I’ll catch you on my next ration, you’ll just have to come visit me in the Mountain.”

Miller twitches at Bryan’s words. Harper zeros in on him immediately, recognizing the obvious signs of his distress. She wonders if the others can see it. Casting a quick glance around the circle, she sees that Jasper is busy staring at his jerky and hasn’t looking up from his plate. Monty is sitting as far as possible from Miller and Bryan while still technically being a part of the circle, and Bellamy’s eyes have slipped closed under Gina’s gentle fingers. The others probably don’t know Miller well enough to spy the meaning in his closed features. She meets his eyes, giving him a concerned look.

“I’ll be there,” Gina gives Bryan a wink, oblivious to Miller’s reaction. “I’m helping you and yours get settled. Plus Raven has promised me we’ll go on a tech scavenger hunt.”

From across the fire, Raven lifts her cup of moonshine in salute. “I know how to show my friends a good time-”

“You know,” Miller says tightly, cutting Raven off and turning to Bryan, “you don’t have to go to the Mountain.” Miller reaches over to wrap his arm possessively around Bryan’s waist.

 _Ah_. Of course. Harper should have realized sooner. She wouldn’t want someone she loves living in that hellhole either.

Bryan turns his earnest eyes to Miller. “What do you mean?”

“That place,” Miller’s voice is like razorwire. “It’s…” He seems to cast around for an accurate description and come up empty.

“It’s cursed,” Jasper supplies from his quiet corner. It’s the first thing he’s said in hours.

Miller nods his agreement. “I don’t want you living there. You could… stay… with me. You know, if you wanted to…”

A warm glow of vicarious thrill passes through Harper as she watches a smile bloom on Bryan’s face.

“I’d like that,” he says, leaning across to pull Miller into a kiss.

She grins at her friends, though it dies when she catches the look on Monty’s face. He looks… god, he looks _heartbroken_. There’s no other word for it, Harper realises, as she looks at him through the shadowy, inconsistent light of the bonfire. As soon as he catches her staring, his expression clamps down, back to its usual benign passivity. But Harper knows what she saw. Miller was wrong before. His match might not be reciprocated, but the look on Monty’s face was anything but platonic.

“So Bellamy, fill us in,” Monroe playfully demands, “What did Indra actually say? Is it true Clarke was rescued from the Ice Nation by Lexa?”

Bellamy sits up at Monroe’s request, wincing only slightly as he readjusts his leg. “No. Turns out the Ice Nation never had her.”

“What?” Monty exclaims, “but of course she was. You saw him-”

“He was Azgeda,” Bellamy cuts in, “but he brought her to Lexa.”

“That makes no sense,” Bryan presses. “Why would he do that?

“Indra wasn’t big on the details.” Bellamy’s gaze is distant, his fingers worrying at the fabric of his jacket.

In a vivid rush, Harper remembers hiding behind the barn, watching as Bellamy lost his mind with worry at the mere hint of colour, his expression frantic and frightening as he hunted shadows that Harper couldn’t see. Bellamy has been on edge all week, and now that Clarke had been brought up in the conversation, the peace he had found a moment ago in Gina’s lap seems a distant memory. His body is tense, almost vibrating with pent up energy.

“So now she’s what, Lexa’s prisoner?” Harper asks hesitantly.   

“Indra used the word ‘guest’,” Octavia volunteers.

“Guest who can’t leave?” Monroe counters.

“They’re keeping her there for her own safety, apparently,” Octavia replies evenly.  

“Who says she’d want to leave anyway?” Jasper’s bluntness stops them all awkwardly in their tracks.

They never talk about it, but Harper knows Clarke’s continued absence is felt keenly throughout their group. Clarke gave everything to save them, and didn’t even wait around long enough to be thanked. She fought hard to win them this peace, having it now without her feels wrong.   

“Well, I for one hope she comes home,” Raven proclaims, loudly breaking the silence, clearly drunker than Harper had realized. “I miss that bossy little blonde.”

Something about Raven’s unguarded comment catches in all of their throats, a hush like grief settling over the group. Raven realizes it too, and grows silent. Harper knows what ‘blonde’ means of course, though she doesn’t really understand what it’s supposed to look like. Raven does, though. At least, she used to.

Bellamy’s the one to break the silence this time. He stands abruptly, muttering his excuses to Gina, something about plans for the next day. He barely looks back at them as he turns his back on the fire and retreats quickly into the shadow of the Ark. Harper watches him go, concern twisting her stomach into a knot.

After that, it doesn’t take long for the rest of them to disband. Maybe they also feel the tension in the air after Bellamy’s hasty exit, maybe they’re just tired, but soon Harper is left alone to stare into the low-burning fire.

“You going to bed?”

Startled, Harper looks up to find Monty standing over her. His arms are crossed over his chest, fists buried deep in the loose fabric around his wrists.

“I might stay out here a bit longer,” she replies, eyes drifting back to the fire.

She could go back to her cot, but she wouldn’t sleep, and she doesn’t think she could stand another night of staring at the metal ceiling, wondering when morning will come. Without a word, Monty slumps down beside her, his shoulder pressed tight against hers. Instantly, she feels warmer, safer just for having him nearby.

Beside her, she feels Monty let out a low, rattling sigh, and maybe he’s thinking the same thing, when he rests his head on her shoulder, the weight heavy and reassuring against the crook of her neck.

It’s dumb of course, and she knows it: having her friends with her won’t protect her from whatever danger is coming. It helps, though, to know she’s not alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one today - longer one coming tomorrow!


	7. February 27th 2150: And the Mountain Came Tumbling Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still more or less in canon here, though you'll start to notice some deliberate changes here and there. These small changes will become big ones as we go on. Our goal as we started this fic was to retell the story of the season but to really get inside everyone's head so that their actions make sense to the reader. Hopefully you'll understand and enjoy our version of the delinquents' adventure.

**Raven, February 27th 2150**

 

“Sinclair, what did you say we still needed for the boiler? We’ve got the tank loaded up, and as much copper as the van can carry.” Raven shouts down the hall of the Mountain to the control room, where Sinclair has set to work sifting through the Mountain’s blueprints for anything useful.

She waits for a moment, arms folded across her chest. When no reply is forthcoming from the control room, Raven loses patience and makes her way down the hall towards him.

“Yo, Sinclair?”

Still no answer.

Rounding the corner, she finds him bent over a wide desk, a map spread out across the table. She recognises the frown of intense concentration on his face, a deep crease between his dark eyebrows.

“Hey,” Raven says again, softer this time, “didn’t you hear me shouting?”

“Huh?” Sinclair finally looks up, as though only just noticing her. He meets her eye for only a moment, before immediately looking back down at the map on the table.

“What’s with you? Gina’s about to finish loading up the copper. Is there anything else we need for the boiler?”

Without looking up from the map, Sinclair waves her over. “Reyes, come look at this,” he replies, completely ignoring her question. “Do you see this?” He indicates at a section of the map, marked with a symbol Raven can’t make out from the other side of the room.

“What is it?” She edges closer, surreptitiously reaching out for the desk, leaning her weight against it for support.

“I might be wrong, I’ll need to check it against the maps back at Arkadia, but does it look to you like a-”

“Hey!” Gina swings around the corner, cutting Sinclair off. “We’ve got all the stuff you asked for loaded up, but I just saw Bellamy. We’re getting called up to the dining hall, there’s some situation.”

“That sounds encouraging,” Sinclair comments dryly. Deftly, he rolls up the map he’d been inspecting and tucks it under his arm.

Raven turns to Gina, frowning. “We still have to fix the power failures all through the Mountain, unless our new tenants don’t mind living in constant darkness.”

Gina shrugs, leaning against the door jam. “I don’t make the rules. Come on, let’s go see who’s trying to kill us this time.”

Raven winces and takes off after her friend, Sinclair following at her heels.

 

* * *

 

**Echo, February 27th 2150**

 

Ultimately, the mission was simple: destroy the Mountain.

Of course, there’s more to it than that. With Queen Nia, there’s always another motive beneath the surface. Every decision is considered from all angles, every move is carefully planned out, every action made to serve an ultimate purpose. None of that is Echo’s concern.

For now, she just can’t wait to watch this fucking place burn.

The Mountain Man - the last of his Clan - should be moving into place now. She can barely believe they have placed the fate of their plan in the hands of a Mountain Man. If not for the information they need from him, Echo would have slit his throat days ago.

He has sworn he knows how to trigger the self destruct in the Mountain. How to destroy it once and for all. He says that there is nothing he wants more in the world than to have his revenge on the Sky People. That he would rather see his home burn than in the hands of the Sky People. On that, at least, he and Echo can agree. It’s the first and last thing she has in common the the Mountain Man vermin.

Bellamy and his soldiers lead her to a large room with tall ceilings right in the heart of the Mountain. She can feel the press of earth over her head, the weight of the mountain on all sides. She cannot breathe in these tunnels. The corridors stink of blood and the press of warm bodies, and the stale tang of false, filtered air. The Mountain might have weapons and defences, but no inducement, no money or weapons or warmth could tempt Echo to ever call a prison like this her home. How could any true warrior consent to live like rats in the confines of this vile place?  

She looks around at the polished wood of the long tables, and the intricate paintings on the walls. So this is where the Mountain scum sat around to eat with the blood of her people in their veins.

The man Bellamy has brought her to demands to hear her story again. Irritation edges her voice now in the retelling, but she complies.

“I was with the Queen’s army heading towards Polis,” she says again. “The War Chief talks too loud.”

Simplicity is key. She shrugs, as though she couldn’t care one way or the other whether they believe her.

“You’re one of them, so why are you telling us this?”

An excellent question, but of course she would be pretty unprepared for this mission if she didn’t have an answer for it.

“We abandoned Skaikru in the battle for the Mountain.” She steels herself and then looks up to meet Bellamy’s trusting eyes. “It was wrong.”

That part’s true. Of course it was wrong.

Lexa broke her promise, and made a liar and a coward out of Echo. For that, she will never forgive her Commander. Not that she needed another reason to hate Lexa. The Commander’s “peace” has been forced on the twelve Clans, at the cost of many lives. Lives that cannot be avenged nor forgotten. Leaders that were born to rule their Clans have found themselves bound to serve. But not her Queen. The Ice Nation will not stand by, denied land that has always been rightfully theirs to retreat to in the dead of winter and watch as it is handed away to these new people from the sky.   

“And won’t they miss you?” The Sky Leader presses.

“Maybe,” she retorts, “that’s why we need to hurry.”

“Pike,” Bellamy intervenes, “she saved my life. We can trust her.”

Echo meets his eye for a moment before having to look away. Yes, she did once save Bellamy’s life, but he in turn saved hers. They should have been square. But then, when she promised to stand and fight with him, she left him to die instead. She is still in his debt, and she’s been trying all winter to repay it.

When she had heard of the Sky People’s victory, she knew Bellamy along with Clarke must have been the ones who defeated the Mountain. As the story spread, Echo made sure that only one name was ever mentioned. Only one warrior was ever branded the _Wanheda_. The burden of the name _Wanheda_ need only be carried by one. It was a small thing, but at least she could spare Bellamy that.

She tells herself that if she can send Bellamy away, spare him from this attack, then she will be able to relieve herself of her debt to him.

Of course it is also a part of the mission. The Queen wants Skaikru forces to arrive at the summit with word of this attack. It is a dare, a trap for Lexa. The moment Lexa sides with Skaikru over the Azgeda, then the entire coalition will be undermined. Ice Nation have already found their scouts murdered within their own borders. It is a violation of the accords, a clear act of war. Destroying the Mountain after such blatant provocation is within their right. Besides, the Mountain is dangerous. It still holds within it weapons that can and have been used to wipe out entire villages. No one should hold such power. Lexa might not see that, but the other clans will. The revolution will begin.

Others arrive around her and soon they are all making plans. It is mere seconds before someone suggests using the missiles in the Mountain to attack. The same weapons that threatened the Grounders into submission throughout history. These people are not nearly as different from the Mountain Men as they’d like to think. At the first test they prove they cannot be trusted. They think they are entitled to this place.

They are not.

  


* * *

 

**Bellamy, February 27th 2150**

 

As Bellamy turns away, the reality is inescapable: Clarke isn’t coming.

She doesn’t want to come home, doesn’t want to stand with her people, doesn’t want _him_. His legs feel like they’re made of water as he and the others begin the silent, horrible descent back down Polis Tower.

These past weeks, Clarke has dominated his every waking thought. Ever since he found her in that cave, getting her back has consumed him. Hell, even before that he’s thought of her, missed her, every day for the last three months. But she hasn’t been missing him. The betrayals of the day have hit him low and hard in the gut and he thinks he might actually be sick. God, could he have been more of an _idiot_? He’s hasn’t just been blind - he’s been dangerous.

When he’d heard from Echo that Clarke was in danger, he hadn’t even hesitated. Hadn’t even considered that it might be a trap, hadn’t even considered that maybe he shouldn’t trust so easily. No, he came rushing to Clarke’s side and left sixty of his people to die in that godforsaken Mountain. He left Gina to die. Gina, who was smart and brave and deserved _so much more_ than what he’d been able to give her.

The guilt is suffocating. He’s directly responsible for what happened today - it’s entirely his fault. He abandoned his people, and for what? To be humiliated at Lexa’s summit. He has no head for Grounder politics, but Clarke is clearly thriving in her new position of power. Clarke doesn’t need his help. Doesn’t want him.

She never has.

Since they landed, since he met Clarke, how many times has he allowed his match to guide his decisions? And how many times have those decisions gotten people killed? Well, not anymore. His match doesn’t need him and he certainly doesn’t need her altering his judgement and getting more of his people killed.

He’s so focused on his thoughts he doesn’t notice how quickly the colour drops out of the world as he walks away.

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, February 27th 2150**

 

_“Clarke, don’t you understand? The best thing for my people would be for me to kill you!”_

_“I have lost enough, I refuse to lose you too.”_

“ _I swear fealty to you, Clarke kom Skaikru. I vow to treat your needs as my own, your people as my people._ ”

 

Lexa’s words and actions ring like bells in Clarke’s head, refusing to let her rest. Over and over, she replays the events of the day. Reuniting with her mother, watching Kane take the branding of the thirteenth Clan, the shock of seeing her own people storm the tower. She’d known that Bellamy was within range, but there had been so much to do for the summit, so many other demands on her attention that she hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t really thought about _him_ , until suddenly he was bursting into the summit, guns literally blazing in colour.

And then the dull ache of loss. Still, her grief for the people lost in the Mountain is softened, somehow, by the knowledge that nothing like that will ever happen again. With Skaikru as the thirteenth Clan, she might finally be able to keep her people safe, but to do that, she needs to be in Polis. Needs to be a voice for the Skaikru among the other Clans. Needs to be a part of the discussions to agree on the terms of their claim on land and resources. Needs to ensure that Lexa will keep up her end of the deal.

She was sorry, very sorry, to have to send Bellamy away. If she could have, she would have tried to keep him with her, but it’s better this way. With Clarke in Polis and Bellamy in Arkadia, she knows, without a doubt, that their people will be looked after. Even so, she feels somehow hollow ever since she watched him turn away from her and leave with the others. The look on his face, of hurt, of grief and - worst of all - of betrayal and distrust, still churns her stomach. For the months that they’ve been parted, Clarke could always still feel him, like a kite string tugging on her heart when she strayed too far. Even though she ignored it, pushed through it, ran from it with everything she had in her, even so, she’d been grateful for the presence of it. Now she just feels… alone.

While this painful sting of the loss of Bellamy is new, the dull ache of loneliness is no stranger to Clarke. She’s used to being on her own by now, even long before coming to Earth she was familiar with solitude from her time in the Sky Box. But these last two weeks that she’s been in Polis have been some of the loneliest of her life. Every day Lexa has come to her door to try and get her to talk again, and every day Clarke refuses. She will meet with her about business but nothing else. Yet every day, when she turns her back on Lexa and shuts the door, she can’t help seeing Wells’ face in her mind. Her best and truest friend. Wells, who deserved so much better. So much better from her. Her guilt for how she treated him during the last days of his life still haunts her. All he ever did was try and look out for her, try and protect her, and she couldn’t let go of a stupid grudge. She had been stubborn and blind and now he was gone.   

What if she one day lives to regret holding her grudge against Lexa too? She knows she has real reasons for being cautious of Lexa, real reasons for anger and mistrust. But Lexa is clearly doing everything she can to earn her forgiveness now. And with a sudden lurch of emotion that she’s terrified to put a name to, she _knows_ that Lexa will not betray her again.  

Clarke needs to believe that she is a big enough person that she is able to forgive. Especially if forgiveness can lead to peace for her people. How could she throw that chance away on a grudge?  

The events of the day swirl around her head, unwilling to let her sleep.

With a sigh, Clarke sits up on the too-comfortable bed in the too-beautiful guest chamber of the too-tall tower at the heart of Polis. Pushing herself to standing, Clarke retrieves her leathers from the floor and dresses. She has no hope of sleep tonight, she may as well just give up on the idea.

Her clothes are clean and unfamiliar: a pair of fitted canvas pants, dark cotton shirt, and a worn leather jacket, sewed with a thick fur lining. They’d been left for her in a folded stack at the foot of her bed. She wonders, as she tugs on an accompanying pair of heavy leather boots, who these clothes had once belonged to. Anya? Costia? Another dead Grounder who won’t be back to claim them? She should feel guilty, but they are clean, comfortable, and they fit, so Clarke’s in no position to complain.

Idly, Clarke fingers the straps of her jacket as she walks around her new room. The western wall of her chamber is open windows. Once, many years ago, there would have been glass protecting the building from the outside world, but they’re long-destroyed now. Instead, she can feel the freezing cut of wind, sharper and more brutal so high from the ground. She edges to the side of the wall, where concrete gives way to open sky. Far below, she can see the tiny figures of townspeople moving from one place to the next, can hear the sounds of a crowd and what might be music in the distance.

Making up her mind, Clarke turns on her heel and strides back to the door of her room. If she’s not going to sleep tonight, she may as well explore a bit.

She doesn’t get very far. As she passes through the throne room on her way to the stairs, she spies a shadowed figure seated in the throne of twisted tree branches.

“Clarke?” Lexa stands and sweeps down the short steps to Clarke’s side. “Do you require anything?”

A little embarrassed, Clarke shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. I just…”

“Couldn’t sleep?” Lexa asks quietly.

Clarke nods, even as Lexa is humming in agreement.

“Me neither. Though our healers can provide you with a draught if you desire one?”

“I - no, thank you. I thought I might just go for a walk instead.” A prickle of suspicion edges up the back of Clarke’s neck. “Is that allowed, or am I still a prisoner here? _For my own protection_ , of course.”

Lexa’s grey eyes are young and contrite when she looks up at Clarke. “You were never a prisoner, Clarke, and you are welcome to leave at any time. Although… would you consent to my joining you?” The hope in Lexa’s voice is surprisingly endearing. “Polis is very beautiful at night. I would... very much like to show it to you.”

She seems hesitant, clearly half expecting Clarke to turn on her heel and slam the door in her face. But not this time. Taking a breath, Clarke nods.

“I’d like that.”

 

\--

 

Lexa is right: Polis at night is unlike anything Clarke has seen.

On first exiting the tower, Lexa leads her through quiet side streets, illuminated intermittently with torchlight. Night stalls offer hot meads, stews, and mulled wines. As they pass, shopkeepers bow their heads at Lexa as whispers of _Heda_ pass through the air. They offer up their wares free of charge, which Lexa politely declines. Once, as they pass a stall of dark wood, Lexa reaches out to a woman who offers her a bone cup of steaming liquid. Lexa takes the item and pays the woman with a small coin. Clarke could swear she heard another whisper, this time of _Wanheda_ , as the woman accepts the payment.

“Try this,” Lexa tells Clarke with a smile, slipping the drink into her hands. Cupping it in her palms, Clarke takes a hesitant sip. Instantly, the drink floods through her senses. Warm and rich, thick with cream and oddly spicy, Clarke thinks it might be the most delicious thing she’s ever tasted.

When she says as much, Lexa merely grins in pleasure and keeps walking. Eventually, they emerge out of the side streets and into a wide square.

As they enter the square, Clarke hears the unmistakable driving beat of drums and rattling chains. A high, rolling series of voices is singing in a language Clarke can’t make out. If it’s trigedasleng, then she’s not quite fluent enough to understand the song. It doesn’t matter, the music is beautiful regardless.  

All around them, revelers fill the streets. Huge throngs of people, dancing and drinking, filling the air with loud conversations and laughter. Gamblers at small wooden tables, and food stalls at odd intervals, and couples secreted in dark corners. The whole places is burning with life.

“Is this to honour the summit?” Clarke asks, half-shouting to be heard over the crowd.

Lexa shrugs, leading Clarke over to the edge of the revelry, where the noise is minimal. “I suppose so,” she says eventually. “Though the people of Polis do not need a reason to engage in leisure. The square is full most nights. Our lives are short on this earth, and too often end in violence. Why should we not enjoy our time while we are here?”

A smile, real and unexpected, spreads across Clarke’s face. “No reason I can think of.” She looks out across the square. “This is incredible.”

Lexa’s replying smile is more melancholic than Clarke expected. “I like Polis best like this,” she says, gesturing out at the dancers, moving like shadows in and out of the cool grey firelight. “At night, but still full of life. It… it’s easier to go without colour during the night, when the matchless and the matched are thrown into darkness together."

Clarke pauses, completely unsure what she’s supposed to say.

“Costia loved the square,” Lexa continues after a moment. She looks down at her own hands. “She loved most things.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, feeling distinctly awkward. This was not the direction she’d expected the evening to take.

“We have all experienced loss. Mine is not unique.”

“Maybe not,” Clarke concedes, “but it’s yours. No two matches are the same, and no one’s loss means any more or less than anyone else’s. The loss of other people does not make your grief invalid. But at the same time, your grief does not justify the infliction of more on others.”

Lexa looks back up, her steady grey eyes a little glassy, but otherwise calm. “Blood must not have blood? Is that what you mean?”

“Maybe something like that,” Clarke agrees, a tentative smile kicking back up her lips.

A hum, something like agreement, expands through Lexa’s chest. “Costia would have liked you. She valued life more than anyone I have ever known... until you. Though like you, she was not afraid to take it when the occasion arose.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says again, unsure what else she can offer.

“As am I.” Lexa’s fingers briefly ghost across a knife hidden at her belt. “But the living must live.” Tentatively, her hand extends towards Clarke’s, removing the empty bone cup from her loose grip and lacing her fingers through Clarke’s.

The fire that erupts in Clarke’s blood is shocking. She remembers suddenly the feeling of Lexa’s lips on hers. A kiss stolen before battle, too gentle and too full of unfulfilled promise to be satisfying.

“There’s something I still don’t understand,” Clarke says, withdrawing her hand. Even as she says it, she knows she’s shattering the fragile moment in the air between them, but she needs to know. She needs to understand.

Lexa pulls her hand back, tucking it into the folds of her furs. “I will tell you anything you want to know.”

“Why would you accept the Skaikru as the thirteenth Clan?”

Maybe she should just accept the enormous gift of protection that Lexa has offered her. She _certainly_ shouldn’t be trying to talk Lexa out of incorporating them into the peace treaty, but she’s been burned before by taking Lexa at her word, without considering all angles of the Commander’s motivation.

“Why did you pledge fealty to me?” Clarke’s throat goes dry at the memory of Lexa’s hand in hers, calloused and strong and tender all at once, as Clarke lifts her to her feet.

“Because it is the right thing to do.”

“Because you feel guilty?”

“Perhaps that is a part of it, yes. I should never have betrayed you at the Mountain, and I will need to live with that mistake for as long as I live.”

“It’s not enough of a reason,” Clarke presses. “Your guilt is one thing, but pledging fealty to me…”

“You are a great leader-”

“It could be dangerous.” Clarke finally gets to the point, to the part of this that has been keeping her up all night. “Siding with us over the Azgeda… you could be jeopardizing everything you’ve worked for, the peace you built, your own life. You’re the one who admitted that you should kill me-”

“Clarke,” Lexa says firmly, catching hold again of Clarke’s hand. “Stop. You and your Clan are under my protection now. The Azgeda broke the coalition, they attacked your people. I am extending you the same protection I extend to all the Clans under the accord.”

“Queen Nia may not see it that way.”

“Nia is my responsibility, and I will handle it.” Lexa lets go of her again and looks back out at the party for a moment. “We cannot hope to have a lasting peace if the Skaikru are not a part of it. Your people belong with ours. We are stronger together. Better able to control resources, able to trade and move safely between borders. Clans are able to spread their populations if they are not under a constant threat of attack. They are able to reap more from their territories and strengthen relationships with other Clans. We can build something that will outlive all of us, if we do this right. I am willing to fight for this peace.”

“So, that’s why you did it? Because it is politically, tactically, a good decision.”

The intensity of Lexa’s gaze could pin Clarke to a wall. “If you prefer. If that is an easier reason for you to believe, then yes, I did it for the good of our people. Although maybe, Clarke, I also did it because I wanted to. Because I do not wish to see your people come to any more harm than you already have. Maybe I did it for you.”

Clarke’s blood is rioting as she nods, trying and failing to keep her voice level when she replies, “okay.”

 

* * *

 

**Echo, February 27th 2150**

 

“ _Step of!_ _Ai gada imfou in gon Haiplana_ ,” Echo shouts as she shoulders her way through the crowd.

 _Get out of my way,_  she refrains from shouting again. She is exhausted, her lungs burning and her legs shaking violently under her feet. She has been running flat out for miles, all the way from Polis, to report the successful completion of her mission.

Staggering into the centre of the fold of people, Echo falls to her knees at Nia’s feet.

“ _Azplana_.” My Queen.

Nia turns, graceful in the shining grey moonlight. “Well?”

“You have your war.” A grim smile of satisfaction curves at the edges of Echo’s lips. Her only regret is that she could not have been present to watch the Mountain go up in smoke.

“Thanks to the last Mountain Man,” Nia purrs as Emmerson turns to join her.

He made it out of the Mountain, then. Damn. Echo had hoped he would die in the explosion. It churns her stomach to see that animal standing shoulder to shoulder with her Queen, but she bites her cheek, refusing to kill a man the Queen has deemed an ally. However much loathing may burn in her blood.

“What about Clarke?” Emmerson asks, as though he has any right to make demands. As though Echo answers to him.

“By the Commander’s side, as predicted.” Echo responds anyway, swallowing any retort she may have said were she not in the Queen’s presence. She turns her attention back to Nia. “Your son is a prisoner.”

Nia nods, unsurprised. “Not for long. Soon he will be free, and Lexa will be dead.” She raises her voice as she continues, speaking out at the assembled council. “We have sampled the Commander’s so-called peace, and found it wanting. For all of history the Clans have been self-governed, with Kings and Queens to protect the interests of their people. Lexa is no more than a religious leader with delusions of dominance. Her decrees are inconsistent, prejudiced, and self-aggrandizing. Her people are not our people. Her laws are not our laws. We will retake the land that was stolen from us. We will protect our people our way.”

The assembled council lets out a single sharp war chant, signaling their approval of the Queen’s words.

Echo grins, feral and sharp, as she looks forward to the battles ahead.

“Rise, _Eko kom Azgeda_.” Nia offers her a hand, assisting her to her feet. “You have served your Clan well.”

Nia grips Echo gently under the chin, her touch almost affectionate. “For that, you shall have a reward.”

“You honour me,” Echo replies. Excitement thrums in her veins as she considers what this reward may be. If she’s honest, there is only one thing she wants in this moment. Only one thing that will finally ease the tension in her chest.

As though sensing Echo’s thoughts exactly, Nia smiles. “I offer you Emmerson _kom Maunon_.”

Emmerson blinks at the sound of his name. “What?”

For her part, Echo can barely contain her ruthless, furious delight. Blood is pounding in her ears as she pulls her favourite knife from the pocket of her belt. “Thank you, _Azplana_.”

She twirls the knife between her fingers, trying to decide whether to draw out his suffering, or end it quickly. The last thing she wants is for the rat to get away. If she plays with him too much, he may stand a chance of escape.

“Wait a minute…” the Mountain Man seems to be putting it together. He begins to back up, his eyes pleading with the Queen. “I’m on your side! I gave you what you wanted!”

“Did you?” The Queen says thoughtfully, as though considering this. “It seems to me you got what _you_ wanted. You got to burn the Clan that destroyed your people. You did not do it for our benefit. If anything, you used us to get the revenge you sought.” The gentleness in the Queen’s tone drops out entirely. When she speaks next, her voice is hard as iron. “We suffered your presence because you were marginally useful. We have not forgotten the atrocities you and yours visited on the Azgeda.”

“But-!”

Echo is done considering her options. She will hear no more from the Mountain. Before he can lodge any further appeal, Echo drives her knife into Emmerson’s neck and wrenches it back out with a vicious twist of her wrist. Blood gushes from his wound in great bursts - spattering onto her arms, face, and furs. It is extremely satisfying.

“ _Jus drein jus daun_ ,” she tells him as he collapses to the forest floor.  

He dies at her feet, gurgling.

 


	8. February 28th 2150: Fallout

**Raven, February 28th 2150**

 

It was late when they get back from the burnt out husk of the Mountain last night, but Raven didn’t sleep. She tried, but after twice waking up with a hoarse scream, in a cold sweat, with the image of Gina’s face tormenting her, she gave up. Sleep’s just not worth the damn trouble. Even so, as she limps through the corridors at god-knows-what ungodly time of the morning, Raven wants nothing more than to curl up somewhere dark and quiet and forget about the hellhole world they live in.

“Raven!”

 _Fuck_.

She can hear him - the very last person in the world she wants to see - running down the corridor behind her, his steps getting louder with each second.

Curse her useless leg, which prevents her from running full tilt in the opposite direction. She could try, but she would fall, or the pain in her hip would spike so bad that she’d black out. There’s no running in Raven’s future: not now, not ever.

Curse _him_. Who refuses to _take the goddamn hint_.

Resigned to her fate, Raven swings around and leans her back against the wall of the Ark. The metal is sharp and cold, but at least she’s able to ease the weight off her bad leg, and feel the blessed relief of lessening the pain in her hip. It never goes away, not entirely, but every step she takes feels like ramming a hunting knife into her hip bone. A dull ache is ecstasy in comparison.

No sooner has she paused for breath than Wick is standing across from her, his boots entering her field of vision as she stares fixedly at the steel grey floor. His boots are badly scuffed, almost worn through entirely on one side. She focuses on this, the sorry state of his shoes, because she cannot, she _will not_ look at him.

She knows what she would see if she did. She would see Wick. All trace of ginger gone from his hair - it’s nickle-grey now, but still soft and light. She would see the hard line of his jaw and the jovial curve of his lips, and the swoop of his eyelashes, so long that they brush the bottom of his eyebrows. Most of all, she would see the look on his face.

Reflected in his eyes, she would see herself, as she used to look at Finn. Exasperation, mixed with fondness, and indulgence, and patience. A look that speaks of belonging. Of love. She can’t take another second of it.

She is being haunted by unconditional love.

“What?” she snaps. Already her blood is simmering.

“I saw Sinclair, he told me about the Mountain. Are you-”

“Okay?” Raven anticipates, shoving all her anger into the word. “No, Wick, I'm fucking not. Gina is dead-” the girl who defied every odd, the girl who couldn't die. Turns out the Earth got her in the end, “dozens of the people we _just rescued_ -”

“I know…”

He lifts a hand to reach towards her and - what? Check for damage? Grab her shoulder? Stroke her cheek? every option sets her nerves on edge - she doesn't wait to find out. Jerking her attention from the floor, she flinches away from him.

Wick drops his hand. The distraught look on his face is exactly what Raven has been trying to avoid seeing. Why does he have to have such an appalling poker face? It makes all of this so much harder than it needs to be.

She tries to remember the sarcastic, barbarous asshole she'd known for so many years on the Ark, and reconcile it with the crestfallen man in front of her. It fits easier than she thought it would. She’s always been his match - whether teasing her or helping her with repairs, or chasing her down in a hallway to check she's okay. Wick has always loved her, she realizes. And isn't that just a kick in the teeth.

“If you know, then stop asking.”

“Raven-”

“What?” her voice is a whipcrack. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” he sighs theatrically. “Just to bask in the pleasure of your sunny personality.”

“Fuck off, Wick.”

“No.”

“Why _not_? I told you-”

“Because the only way any of us are getting through this is together.” He says it like a line he memorized. Like a mantra he’s been repeating to himself. It’s so stupid Raven doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

His eyes are wide and lonely, and her heart tightens when she looks at him, but she forces herself to hold his gaze. “I do not want to get through this together.”

A headache has taken up permanent residence in her temple, pounding like a drum beat. Her good leg is shaking again, every time she so much as twitches her hip sears in pain, and grief is a dead weight across her shoulders. But she will do this, because she needs to make him understand.

“I know you’re upset, I know this is hard-”

Raven might actually scream if she has to keep having this conversation. “Stop. Just - stop talking. Stop trying to help me. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like THAT - like I’m your match,” she spits.

Maybe fighting is the only way she knows how to communicate anymore, because suddenly, in a fit of anger, she can say everything she’s been trying to express for months. “I can’t even meet your eye when you look at me like that. I don’t know how to speak to you, let alone trying to give you whatever it is you’re looking for, when you look at me like _that_! So just STOP looking at me like I can give you something. I have nothing to offer you.”

He’s leaning back, folding his arms over his chest, a frown creasing his forehead. And that’s better, actually. That looks more like the Wick she used to be able to breathe around.

It’s enough to keep her going.

“I never asked to be the pet project you fixated on. Your match is your own damn problem. Stay away from me.”

And finally - _finally_ \- Wick looks away. His gaze falls to the floor, studying his own broken boots. “I wish I’d never told you about my match,” he mutters.

“You didn’t tell me, I figured it out.”

When he looks up again, there’s a spark of real anger in his eyes. “Yeah, well, I wish I’d lied.”

“I wish you had too.” And she means it.

Without another word, Wick turns from her and stalks back the way he’d come. It should be a relief. She should feel better, watching his back retreat down the hallway. Instead, she feels a well of long-buried tears bubbling up in her lungs, choking her throat.

She half-runs-half-staggers somewhere private and only just makes it to her quarters in time. Once she’s alone, she can’t hold back the flood of grief and loss and fury that overwhelms her in the empty room.

The small part of her that is still Raven - the Raven who would skip into Engineering with an impish grin on her face and a quip in her back pocket, and not the Raven who’s been shot and tortured and colour-widowed - wonders whether, in another life, she might have been able to love Wick the way he deserves.

She doesn’t need to wonder, really, as she sobs alone in her quarters. She knows.

 

* * *

 

**Wick, February 28th 2150**

 

Ears ringing, Wick stalks as fast as he can back to the Engineering Bay. He just wants to get back to work. He just wants to go home. Which is a ridiculous thought, because he _is_ home. He’s pounding his way through stretches of Ark corridor, but it’s not the same.

No one gets a choice, in life, but Wick never would have returned to Earth if he’d had the option to stay in the sky. Space was all he’d ever known, and it had been his home. How can he be homesick for the perilous vacuum of open space? It’s insane, and yet, without any doubt, Wick thinks his life in space had been many times safer than this.

Fuck, he hates Earth.  

In the absence of his home, all he wants is to work. He doesn’t want to think about Raven, eyes shining in pain and rage, or the way that the Ark gets duller with every step he takes away from her, or how it was he managed to fuck this up so completely in such a short period of time.

As he turns the corner into Engineering, he walks headlong into the huge water tank that some _idiot_ unloading the truck from the Mountain must have dragged right inside the door of Engineering and left for him as a fun treat. Walking directly into it, Wick slams his whole right foot into the stupid tank, stubbing what feels like all of his toes.

“Oh mother of-” he shouts, hopping awkwardly on one foot as he tries to shake it off.

Sinclair, who Wick hadn’t even noticed until now, looks up from the desk he’s sitting at. He has to peer around the water tank to make eye contact.

“The guards delivered the water tank last night.” And damn him if he isn’t fighting a grin.

“Thanks,” Wick replies, “otherwise I might not have noticed it.”

Sinclair cracks a grin in earnest as that. “The copper’s here too.”

“Fabulous. At least we might be able to get a hot shower for our pains.”

Wick maneuvers his way around the tank and slumps down on the cot he’s set up in the corner of the room. His foot is throbbing and Sinclair’s face is a washed out ashy-brown, and Wick very much wants to scream, but doesn’t know what good it would do.

“You alright?” Sinclair sets down his pen, on top of what looks like a map. “Stubbed foot aside, you look awful. And I’m the one who just watched a Mountain full of our friends explode.”

Wick winces. He’s a seriously awful friend. “I’m sorry.”

Sinclair shrugs, his face shuttered and impassive. “Just another day on Earth.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Did you find Raven?”

Wick nods, not trusting himself to speak on the subject.

It must be written all over his face though, when Sinclair gives him an infuriatingly sympathetic look. “That bad?”

“When has it ever gone well, where Raven’s concerned?”

“Give her time.”

“It’s not a time issue. I think it’s a _me_ issue.”

Sinclair doesn’t answer, until: “Do you want a distraction?”

“Music to my ears, Jacapo. What do you got for me?”

“Nothing fun. Come look at this.” Sinclair sits back, indicating the map in front of him.

Wick hoists himself back up from the cot and moves around to stand beside his friend, peering down at the faded map. It’s ancient, almost a century old, stamped in the corner with a national imagery and mapping agency seal.

He squints. “It’s a map.” It’s huge, covering the whole of the continent.

“Yes, thanks,” Sinclair sighs.

“Since when did you become a cartographer?”

“Focus,” Sinclair admonishes. “Look at this.” He points to a section of the map, marked out with pen. “This is us here,” he indicates a small x in the north-east. “You see this?” Some distance across the map, he has circled several times a section that’s annotated with a nuclear material warning symbol. It looks to be very far away, many miles further west than any of them have even mapped, let alone traveled.

“Nuclear?” Wick thinks this over, trying to understand what's caused the tight line of tension in Sinclair’s jaw. “You think there are weapons?”

“I don’t care about weapons,” Sinclair snaps. “Everyone in this camp is obsessed with weapons. I think it was a _power plant_.”

“Okay.” Maybe it’s the events of the day, but Wick’s brain is not catching up as quickly as Sinclair clearly wants him to. “And that’s… good?”

“Kyle! It’s potentially catastrophic. Depending on the state of the plant, it could be days away from destroying the continent. How well do you think a very delicate power plant could survive both a nuclear war and a hundred years of neglect?”

Oh. _Oh_! “This is bad,” Wick says, his brain finally getting there.

“We have to go check it out,” Sinclair persists. “It could be nothing. It could have been shut down, or it could be safely contained, but if we’re right… if there’s even the remotest possibility that…”

“Yeah,” Wick agrees, the full scope of the danger beginning to sink in. “Yes. We should go. We’re the only ones who would know what to look for.”

Sinclair nods. “You’ll come with me?”

“There should be two of us. Just… in case.” In case one of them dies on the way, or while at the plant, or on the way back. If they do find something, someone needs to be alive to report it.

“Are you sure?” Sinclair is looking at him, dark eyes probing Wick’s expression. “Because I could go alone. Take a guard, or someone who’s interested in this. Maybe Monty would-”

“No,” Wick says quickly. “I need to get out of here for a bit. I… it’s getting too hard. Swimming in and out of colour like this. I’ve been doing it for so long, and it’s not… I can’t keep it up. If she wants me to stay away from her, I can do that. It’s easier than living half in colour and half out.”

Sinclair is already rolling up the map. “Do you want to tell Kane he’s losing both his engineers, or should I?”

 

* * *

 

**Jasper, February 28th 2150**

 

How many more goddamn funerals is he supposed to attend in his stupid short life? No one noticed as he slipped away, or maybe it's just that nobody cared. As he passed by the medical centre on his way out, he was struck by an idea. A crazy, idiot idea, but the moonshine was silencing that little voice in his head, so he did it anyway.

Now here he is, the canister of Finn’s ashes tucked under one arm, as he slinks out of camp. Sue him, he wants company, but none of those boring assholes sitting around inside will do. He wants to talk with Finn.

He ducks through Raven’s Gate, and finds himself walking out through the forest.

“Well Finn,” Jasper speaks out loud, patting the canister as he walks. “Lots to catch you up on. Clarke killed you, maybe you saw that one coming, I sure as hell didn’t. Then turns out she got a taste for it or something cause she went on to kill like a whole city of Grounders, and then a whole other civilization of people who lived in Mount Weather. Then she fucked off and no one’s seen her in months. I’ve been told you died so that we could have peace with the Grounders. Very noble of you and all, but the Grounders ended up fucking us over and left us to die in the Mountain, so fat lot of help they were. Then _now,_ even though we’re supposedly at peace, some of them just blew up sixty of our people. So A-plus for effort with the whole honorable sacrifice and all, but I’m not sure what fucking good it’s done us. Just thought you should know.”

He imagines Finn’s compassionate face looking at him, nodding sadly.

“Oh and I found my match for seventeen days, and even though we spent most of that time fighting for our lives, it was still the best two and a half weeks of my life. Pretty messed up, right?”

And now her home is destroyed too. He knows that the Mountain was also her prison, but that doesn’t change the fact that the only place he’d ever known her, the only place he’d ever seen in colour, was gone.

He’s reached the dropship. He goes to sit with all the other ghosts they’ve buried since landing here. Drowsy from the moonshine and worn out from the walk, he lies down on the cool grass.

\--

When Jasper opens his eyes again, it’s dark. A fire is crackling by his feet, casting long shadows across the abandoned dropship. He looks around to see Monty tending to the fire. Someone must have seen him leave after all.

He sits up, his head aching now. He should have brought another bottle of moonshine with him. Monty looks around at him and motions to the canister sitting on the grass between them.

“Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

“Well, I dunno what you think it is, but I’m surprised you don’t recognize our old friend Finn here.”

“Why do you have this Jasper?” Monty presses, his voice annoyingly even and steady.

“I wanted to take a walk with a friend. Besides, he belongs here with the others.” He picks up the canister and removes its lid as he indicates the graves beside them. “It’s Memorial Day, we should put him to rest.”

“That’s not your call to make. What about Raven?” Jasper hesitates. He’d forgotten about Finn’s colour widow. Of course Raven should get to be the one to scatter Finn’s ashes. Monty continues, “and Clarke?”

“FUCK CLARKE.” Jasper explodes, jumping to his feet. “She doesn’t get a say anymore. She’s a mass murder.”

Jasper paces back and forth, breathing shallowly. “You know the truth is I get why she did it, I really do, and I get why Bellamy would help her. What I don’t get is _you_. I don’t get how you could knowingly kill Maya, your friend, my _match.”_ The word breaks in his voice. Now that he’s started he can’t stop, his voice grows until he is screaming in Monty’s calm looking face.   

“How is it that you can wipe out an entire civilization, and yet I’m the one who can’t sleep at night? How can you just be fine!?”

“I’M NOT FINE!” Monty’s composure breaks, exposing untold grief in his eyes, which Jasper suddenly wishes he couldn’t see.

“None of us are fine!” Monty continues, “you think you’re the only one who can’t sleep at night? Look around. My father is dead. I can barely look my friends in the eye. I have the blood of _children_ on my hands. We’re all fucked, Jasper. It’s just the rest of us know that nothing good comes from drowning yourself in moonshine every night. The rest of us get on with what needs to be done.”  

An absurd laugh erupts from Jasper. “You say that as if there is anything worth doing left.”

“Why can’t this be enough?” There is a pleading tone in Monty’s voice now, “I know there’s no colour for you anymore, but there’s no colour for me either. There are plenty of good things, worthwhile things, in the world. Things that look just as good in black and white. It used to be enough. You used to always say we didn’t need colour or matches, because we had each other. Why can’t it be like that again?”

Jasper has finally pushed through, broken some wall that Monty’s been carefully maintaining for months. He looks at Monty’s eyes, filling with tears. Instead of feeling victorious, Jasper thinks he might be seriously about to vomit on his shoes. He understands what Monty wants from him, but Jasper can’t give it to him. Can barely even explain how empty the world feels now.

“Because it can’t.”

A coldness falls over Monty’s face as he registers this. “Fine, but I’m done being your punching bag. Either you pull yourself together, or you fall apart alone.”

Monty turns and walks away.

“You’re leaving?” Jasper calls out as he takes a few steps after him in the dark, suddenly wanting his friend back. He staggers forward, tripping on a root and crashing hard on the ground. Finn’s ashes spill around him, coating the dark grass.

 _No_ , he thinks desperately, _come back._

 

* * *

 

**Nathan, February 28th 2150**

 

Miller squeezes Bryan’s hand tighter as they sit, listening to the names of the dead. Bryan has been in shock all day. How could he not be? Everyone he had known, everyone he had fought to survive alongside for so many months, is gone. Worse, Bryan should have been with them. If Miller hadn’t begged him to stay, he would have been. Miller’s heart clenches at the thought. He detests that Mountain. The only good thing to come out of this horror is that at least now, finally, that monstrosity has been destroyed.

The funeral is long and nobody quite knows what to do or say. After all the people they’ve buried, they should probably be better at these things by now, but apparently not.

Bellamy gets up to speak about Gina. It’s so impossibly hard. Miller’s heart aches for the guy as he stands there. Bellamy doesn’t look good. Which is understandable, but Miller has watched Bellamy go through plenty of hard times before. Something’s different this time. Bellamy looks broken. Empty. Lost.

As Bellamy goes back to his seat, Miller notices colour receding around him. Monty has left the funeral, clearly. It looks like he might even be leaving camp, as the colour continues to drain steadily away. Miller screws his eyes shut as he tries to refocus. This isn’t fair. He loves Bryan. He has chosen Bryan. Wants, needs, to be here for Bryan. But his vision is outside of his control and he can’t not notice; he can’t not care. Meanwhile, Monty has no concept of the effect his movements have on him. The effect he has on him.

Miller brings his attention back to the funeral proceedings. Pike is standing now, his hands folded behind his back as he marches to the front of the room. He speaks with military precision to the assembled mourners.

“Those men and women were warriors. I watched as they fought for their lives every day since we landed here together. They were strong. They didn’t die because they were bested, they died because they were cheated. Killed in an attack while they were unarmed and at rest. Our enemy just sent us a clear message. They have no intention of playing fair.”

There is a rustle of agreement that ripples through the tense listening crowd.

“Now I know here you have had a different experience with the Grounders. Since arriving at Arkadia I have met Lincoln, Indra, and other members of the Trikru Clan, and I respect the progress Kane and others have made in forging peace with them. That peace is important, but make no mistake: the Ice Nation has no interest in peace with us. Their army is stationed not even two miles from our camp, waiting for the go ahead to launch an attack. Kane has maintained that the peace talks with the Commander will convince the Ice Nation army to stand down. He has maintained that the Commander will protect us. And as we know, once the Commander has given her word she never breaks it.”

Another agitated ripple runs through the crowd. Everyone knows the story of Lexa’s betrayal at the Mountain. From the look on Pike’s face, Miller assumes he knows the story too.

“While Kane was off in Polis talking about peace, the Ice Nation was attacking the Mountain and killing our people. So it seems pretty clear what they thought of the Commander’s supposed peace.”

Nods of approval throughout.  

“I know this is a new enemy to a lot of you, but I have been fighting these bastards for months now. I have felt the weight of what they are capable of, and now unfortunately so have the rest of you. So to the souls that we set to rest here today, I can’t promise you peace, but I can promise you that your deaths will not be in vain. We. Will. Remember.”

A chorus of _We will remember_ echos all around him. There is an edge to everyone’s voices. It doesn’t sound like a prayer. It sounds like a battle cry.

As Pike leaves and the crowd starts to disperse, Miller turns to look at Bryan. His expression is hard and cold. It sends a shiver down Miller’s spine, reminding him again that Bryan’s experiences have shaped him, changed him, for better or worse.

“Pike should be Chancellor.” Bryan’s voice is matter of fact. As Miller looks around, it’s clear Bryan isn’t the only person having this thought.

Miller isn’t sure what to say. It isn’t as simple as Pike made it out to be. Things have never been that simple, and while he may have some good points, Kane is the obvious candidate for the next Chancellor. The very idea of it being anyone else seems absurd to Miller, but it’s impossible to deny that something just happened in this room. People all around him just made up their minds.

Change is coming.

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy, February 28th 2150**

Bellamy stares at the cup of moonshine in front of him. He’s been sitting here since the memorial ended a few hours ago. He’s not sure where else to go. Not sure what else to do. He wonders how much of this he’s supposed to drink before it helps. How much does Jasper need? So far it doesn’t seem to be doing much for the hollow pit in his gut.

He feels totally adrift. Alone. And it is all his fault.

Pike sits down across from him.

“Listen, Bellamy,” Pike begins without invitation, “I’m not going to beat around the bush here. People are asking me to run as Chancellor in the upcoming election. I’m going to stand, and I want your support.”

“You’re looking for a vote?” Bellamy asked incredulously. He looks up into Pike’s stern face. His arms lean heavily on the table between them, bending into Bellamy’s space.

“No. I don’t want your vote. I want you by my side. I need you by my side. People look up to you, Bellamy, they respect you. You’ve been down here longer than most of us, you lead those kids and kept them alive when most people didn’t think there was a chance in hell of your survival. You’ve faced Grounders, you’ve been in battle against them, and when all hope was lost you rescued everyone from that Mountain.”

“Not everyone,” Bellamy croaks, downing the rest of his cup of moonshine, trying to block out the faces he sees swiming before his eyes. The faces he sees every night in his dreams.  

“It was a tough call you made, but you did what needed to be done to ensure your people’s survival. That’s what a true leader does. If I am going to lead these people, I need someone like you by my side. Someone who the people of Arkadia trust, and who is ready to make the hard call.”

“Nobody should trust me. I’m the one who left all those people in the mountain to die. It’s my fault they’re dead.”

“That’s true. I won’t try and convince you otherwise. That was the wrong call. Why did you make it?”

“I…“ Bellamy trails off, unsure of how to proceed.        

“Was it because of Clarke?”

Bellamy opens his mouth, but his protest dies on his lips. It was. Of course it was. He left all those people without a second thought to their safety or to the truth of what he was hearing. He nods, feeling the full weight of his shame wash over him.

“Matches are a distraction, Bellamy. An illusion of the eyes that affects the clarity of how we see things. The world was meant to be seen in black and white. Colour is dangerous, and seeing it can cloud your decision making. If you’re going to lead with me, I need you to keep a clear head. You can’t make another call like you did back there.”

“I won’t,” Bellamy says stiffly. “It-” he hesitates. “It disappeared as soon as I walked away in Polis. I think it’s completely gone now… It feels completely gone.” He realizes as he says it that this is the first time he’s voiced that feeling aloud. He hasn’t told anyone, not even Octavia, about the hole in his heart where Clarke’s presence used to be.

“Good,” Pike nods encouragingly. “That’s good. Now come on, we have an army at our door and an election to win. We don’t have much time.”

As Pike stands, Bellamy follows suit. He doesn’t know what he’s good for anymore, but if he can help protect his people in any way, then that is what he’s going to do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our gang are all going though a really rough time right now, especially with the camp so susceptible to Pike's hateful rhetoric. But stay with us dear readers, they will find their way back to one another eventually...


	9. March 3rd 2150: Small Moves in a Larger Game

**Echo, March 3rd 2150**

 

There’s something about Polis Tower’s ancient upper floors and open windows that always makes Echo edgy. All the other buildings this size fell down, what makes everyone so sure this one’s safe?

Since arriving in the capital, whispers of an overthrow are everywhere. Queen Nia was taken into custody immediately to await sentencing for the Mountain attack, but that didn’t stop the whispers from spreading. If anything, it made them spread faster.

“Echo!”

Echo looks up and finds a familiar figure striding towards her down the hall. The sight of him again, after so long, sends a shock down her spine. Her chest tightens as she sucks in a breath. Recollections of a happier time, made bitter by grief and loss, crash over her. She swallows against the unwelcome wave of nostalgia, shoving her memories back into the deepest corners of her mind.

“Evening Prince.” She greets him with a wry smile. “Look at you, a free man once more.”

“I need to talk to you.” Roan’s voice is, unsurprisingly, straight to business. He marches up to her like a man on a mission, his mouth set in a grim line. Everything about him - the hard line of his nose, the crease between his eyebrows, the scar across his forehead - is painfully familiar.

“So talk.”

“What is she up to?”

“What do you mean?” Echo responds innocently.

“Don’t play that game.” Roan is thrumming with tension. “I know she’s up to something, and I know you’re her new favourite, so you must know.”

“I was always your mother’s favourite,” Echo replies, unable to resist the gentle tease. “If you want to know what she’s doing, you could go ask her yourself.”

“I know and I will.” Roan’s voice is flat and severe. He never did like not getting his way. “Right now I’m asking you. Is it true she’s moved the whole army and has them stationed within a mile of the Skaikru camp?”

“That land is ours, it’s always been ours to migrate to in the winter. She’s just doing what we have always done.”  

“You cannot be so stupid as to think this will not be taken as a direct act of aggression against the Sky People! What can she possibly gain by provoking them like that?”

“So what, are we just supposed to give up that land? _Our_ land? Would you rather we freeze to death over the cold winter?”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Roan crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Let's not pretend here. There are plenty of other places the army could have wintered, it didn’t need to be there. They need to move. Now. Before it’s too late.”

“Was that a threat?”

“Yes! Absolutely. We’ve already angered the Skaikru by blowing up their people in the Mountain. If you’re not scared of them and what they can do yet, you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Don’t lecture me on what they’ve done. I know them. I’ve been in their camp. I’ve seen them at work. They are the Mountain Men all over again. That is why we need to stop them.”

“So she _is_ planning to move against them.”

“You still don’t get it! You’re not seeing the big picture here. Skaikru are just a pawn in this game.”

Realization dawns on Roan’s face. “She wants the Commander.” He frowns. “But she cannot obtain the title, the conclave-”

“She does not want to be Commander,” Echo spits. She leans forward to whisper in his ear, the whisper that she has been spreading among all of the ambassadors. “ _She wants independent rule_.”

Echo watches as Roan’s eyes go wide with understanding, and continues, “The Commander was always supposed to be a spiritual leader of our people, not the ultimate ruler. She cannot understand all of the needs of the individual clans. She places restrictions on us, tells us where to roam and where to harvest. She preaches peace and justice for all, but when our scouts are killed in our own territory by these new invaders, she rules in their favour. She takes away our freedoms and then allows others to attack us within our borders. She’s become too powerful for her own good, and now we have to do something about it.”

He shakes his head. “You’re really willing to just give up on this peace?”

“This peace has been a sham from the start. It was purchased with blood that she will never repay!”

“Echo.” Roan’s voice falls to something low and sympathetic. It immediately sets Echo’s teeth on edge. “If this is about him... I understand. I miss him too-”

“Don’t.” She holds up a hand to stop him. Already she can feel her control wavering. “Don’t you dare talk about him.”

“He was my brother.”

“He was my-” The word chokes in her throat.  

The look of pity in his eyes makes her want to hit something. She gathers herself again.

“Queen Nia is coming before Lexa tomorrow. You’ll see what happens then.”

She turns away from him before he can ask again, intending to have the last words.

What he says instead, calling to her down the hall, stops her in her tracks. “I am glad to see you again, Echo, truly.”

She whips around, trying to spy sarcasm in his expression, but he looks just as before, his eyes stern and his brows creased in his usual frown. If she hadn't heard him say it, she might not have ever believed it.

“I did not expect to see you again in this life,” he continues, meeting her eyes dead on. “No one before had returned from the Mountain.”

“No one before had returned from banishment, either.”

He nods, something approaching a smile quirks at the corners of his lips.

“These are strange times we live in,” he agrees.

“And much can change in a year.”

With that, she turns again and walks away.

 

* * *

 

**Harper, March 3rd 2150**

 

The cold night air whips at Harper’s face as she stands guard at the main gate to Arkadia. It’s been a long shift and her feet are tired, but she doesn’t mind. In the days since the destruction of the Mountain the camp has been in rougher shape than ever. Tensions are high, everyone’s on edge, and paranoia has started to creep like a virus through the camp. Their scouts report that the Ice Nation army has set up camp less than a mile from the gates of Arkadia. For now, they seem to be doing nothing. Just… sitting there… as though it’s totally normal for a full army to set up shop in a valley right next to a group of people they bombed less than a week ago. Harper recognizes the tension that’s building up around camp: it’s the same that happened back at the dropship, during the agonizing two weeks that they spent waiting for the Grounder’s retaliation after Unity Day. She’s had enough of that feeling for one lifetime.

It’s better out here on duty than in the overcrowded and stuffy mess hall. It’s late, but that doesn’t seem to make any difference. If anything, it’s just more likely that people will be drunk and starting fights.

Monroe stands next to her on the other side of the gate. Neither of them speak, both enjoying the silence.

There is movement from within the camp. Harper watches, squinting against the floodlights, as a group of the surviving Farm Station crew emerge from the armory. Half a dozen of them, and at the head of the group are Pike and Bellamy, striding with bone-chilling purpose across the yard. This can’t be good. Monroe and Harper both instinctively close ranks, moving in front of the large gate doors. Nobody leaves Arkadia after dark. Nobody. It’s the primary aim of their watch in the first place: to stand here for long hours in the middle of the night, making sure that no one comes or goes.

Lincoln emerges from the stables at the west side of the square. Taking in the group of soldiers, he banks hard to intercept them. He joins Monroe and Harper, silently placing his body between Pike and the gate.

Bellamy steps forward, away from Pike, to address the three of them now blocking the only way out of Arkadia.

“You need to step aside right now.” Bellamy’s voice is calm and self-assured. He’s talking as if he’s not asking them to violate the principle rule of the watch. The very principle that he himself taught them.

“What are the guns for?” Harper asks instead. They are all alarmingly well armed, equipped with the best of Arkadia’s automatic weapons. Access to these guns is highly restricted. Harper tried to check one out for target practice a few weeks ago and was flatly denied. However they got these weapons, Harper’s willing to bet it wasn’t sanctioned.

“There’s an army out there,” Bellamy says instead of answering Harper’s question. “We need to hit them before they hit us.”

Harper isn’t surprised that someone is suggesting this. Fear of the Ice Nation Army has been a constant and escalating topic of panicked conversation for days now. Someone was bound to suggest a first strike. What _is_ surprising is that it’s _Bellamy_ who’s suggesting it, and that he’s suggesting they strike in the dead of night.

Kane’s said he has a plan, and this - Bellamy leading a small group of heavily armed Farm Station fighters to attack while the Ice Nation army is asleep - this is definitely not Kane’s plan. The words ‘war crime’ echo uncomfortably in the back of Harper’s mind.  

Lincoln steps forward, insistent. “That army will not attack so long as we follow the Commander’s peace.”

“They’ve _already_ attacked,” Bellamy counters passionately, “Our people are dead. Now it’s time we fought back.”

“If you do this, you’ll break the treaty you made when you became the thirteenth Clan. You’ll forfeit any right to the Commander’s protection.”

Bellamy opens his mouth to respond when Pike’s voice cuts in. “What protection? I’ve never seen an ounce of this so-called protection from the Grounder Commander.”

“I have always done what is best for us,” Bellamy interjects, pleading with Monroe, Lincoln, and Harper in turn. “I need you to trust that I am doing that now.” His eyes are ablaze with his passionate plea for their trust, and maybe he’s right. Harper has always trusted Bellamy. She owes him her life like a million times over.  

“Monroe?” As he locks eyes with Monroe, Harper watches her friend nod and move off to the side, clearing the way for Pike’s people. And Harper can’t judge her for it. This is Bellamy they’re talking about. His plans have kept them alive so far.

“Harper?” Bellamy meets Harper’s eyes and she finds herself compelled to obey.

“Sorry Lincoln,” she whispers, moving off to the side as well. Lincoln is left alone at the gate.

She trusts Bellamy, or she wants to, but she can’t shake the feeling that something is seriously wrong here. Apart from anything else, she feels a strange spark of betrayal that Bellamy would call on them to betray their loyalties as guards of Arkadia like that. He’s the one who _taught_ them how to defend the gate and how important the watches are. The whole interaction has left her feeling manipulated.

She also can’t help but wish that Clarke was here right now. In all the time she’s known them, Clarke is the only person who can read Bellamy’s mood with pinpoint accuracy. The only one who can build him up or talk him down as the situation calls for it. Clarke would know what to do, would know exactly what words to use to diffuse the situation or find a plan that doesn’t leave such a bitter taste in Harper’s mouth.

A scuffle breaks out at the gate. With careful, brutal swipes Lincoln is able to disarm one of the Farm Station men. Arm locking around the man’s neck, Lincoln holds him hostage at the gate.

“So much for the good Grounder.” Harper hears Monty’s mom snipe.

Bile rises in Harper’s throat at the comment. Lincoln is the one trying to uphold Arkadia law. Harper and Monroe were the ones to betray the camp, and Farm Station are the ones trying to break the rules by leaving. Her feeling of unease ratchets up when she takes in the disdainful expression on Hannah’s face. This is wrong.

As subtly as she can, Harper edges back towards the guard’s post.

“I can’t let you start a war!” Lincoln is shouting.

“We’re already at war,” Pike counters, his voice ringing out across the night.

Feeling blindly behind her, Harper finds the small alarm button at the base of the fusebox for the electric fence. She doesn’t know what they should do or who she can trust anymore, but she knows that whatever happens next Abby and Kane have a right to know about it. She can’t summon Clarke with this alarm, but at least she can summon a Griffin. Taking a sharp breath, she presses down on it hard.

Triggering the alarm has an immediate and dramatic effect. Blaring sirens fill the air from the loudspeakers and the floodlights burst to full blast, bathing the yard in near-daylight levels of white-grey. The area is already filling with people as Harper returns to the knot of people at the gate.

Octavia is sprinting to Lincoln’s side. Confusion and fear battle across her face as she glares at her brother and the Farm Station team. Slowly, he and the Farm Station militia place their weapons on the ground.

“What the-” Octavia starts.

“What the hell do you thinks you’re doing?” Abby shouts across her, her voice rising over the noise of the alarm and the shouts of people running towards them from the mess hall.

She strides forward to meet Pike. She might not be Clarke, but she has the same flint in her eye, the same assured postured, the same air of command. Harper can’t help feeling that she made the right call.

“What you didn’t have the guts to.” Pike matches the Chancellor shot-for-shot in demeanour and confidence.

Chaos reigns while other guards move forward to collect the Farm Station weapons from the ground. Harper can see Kane speaking with Bellamy in low tones, but Bellamy’s face remains cool and impassive.

Abby, maybe recognizing the volatility of the situation, dismisses the assembled crowd. “Everyone go back to your quarters, it’s over.”

“Oh, it is far from over,” Pike roars, turning to address the assembled camp. “An army attacks you and then sits at your doorstep and your answer is to do nothing? Do the dead deserve no vengeance? No justice? The enemy could strike again at any moment and when they do, this camp will not hold. If we wait, they will kill us.” His voice is determined and clear.  

“They are simply camped there,” Kane rebuts, trying to throw his voice as far and wide as Pike’s. “They are not moving to attack and they will not attack so long as we have the protection of the Commander as the thirteenth Clan.”

“And how long do you think the Commander’s word will last this time?” Pike addresses this to Kane, but the effect on the rest of the assembled camp is clear. They agree with him. Harper can’t help but have doubts of her own on that point. But whatever she thinks of Lexa, does the choice really come down to just those two options? Either commit a war crime or trust a foreign leader who’s betrayed them before? Are those _really_ the only options?

“They don’t even need to attack to destroy us,” Pike continues, “so long as they are positioned at our door we are cut off from hunting and any further food supply. So tell us, Kane. Tell us the truth. How long will we last? How long before they starve us out. Because I’ve seen your _garden_ ,” he laces the word with so much sarcasm that Harper feels a flare of indignation on Kane’s behalf, “there will be no food produced from that mound of dirt.”

Kane flinches as Pike continues to stare him down.

“In two days you will have an election. I would like to declare my candidacy. I only hope it is not too late by then.”

As Pike move off into the heart of the camp, followed by Bellamy and a growing number of people, Harper is left feeling more confused than ever.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this whole plot line just seemed to make WAY more sense if the army camped there was Ice Nation. Then the fear they all feel in Arkadia is somewhat justified even if what they want to do about it is still wrong. 
> 
> Hope you're all enjoying the story so far!


	10. March 4th 2150: Distracted

**Roan, March 4th 2150**

 

A silence falls over the room as they wait for the Queen to be brought in.

Roan adjusts the fur collar that he’s wearing draped over his coat, suddenly self-conscious. The fur’s pure white, with the hand symbol of the Azgeda people branded on the leather strap, and it still feels too big for his shoulders. It had been his brother’s, Taron. Roan had never thought he would be the one to wear it, never even dreamed of wearing it. Yet here he is. He’d found it in his chambers, laid out for him that morning with no clue as to who had left it.

Sitting here in this packed Throne Room, he wishes more than ever that it was Taron sitting here instead of him. Growing up, the attention was always on Taron. He was the obvious favourite of all, especially their mother. Taron was the heir; Roan was the spare. His mother always made sure that was perfectly clear, but Roan had never begrudged Taron for it, he’d been happy to stay in his brother’s shadow. Taron had been a natural leader, had made it all look easy. Now he’s gone, and Roan’s left sitting here like a fraud, trying to imitate his brother’s authority.

The Council Room looks different from how he remembered seeing it in the days before Lexa’s ascension.  Gone is the large round table, where the twelve clan ambassadors used to sit, side-by-side with the Commander. This is a Throne Room now: the Commander’s chair has been moved to the head of the room, placed high above the twelve ambassadors seated around the room, just in case there was any question as to who’s in charge. For a moment, Roan understands why Lexa must irk his mother so.

As if on queue, the doors to the Council Room are thrown open, and he sees her. His mother. It’s the first time he’s laid eyes on her in almost a year, since before he was banished in the aftermath of the rebellion and his brother’s death. Lexa had banished him to ensure that he would not take up his brother’s cause and he had watched as his mother, for the first time, stood by Lexa. He had watched as she kneeled and agreed without argument to her only remaining son’s banishment. Anger and resentment rise like bile in his throat at the memory. Escorted by two guards into the centre of the room, her head held high, she looks as fierce and imposing as he remembers.

The charge against Queen Nia is read, detailing the destruction of Mount Weather and death of 49 members of Skaikru. Sitting in a prominent seat on Lexa’s left, the _Wanheda_ doesn’t hesitate to demand justice for her people. Nia snarls at the girl’s pronouncement, but Clarke keeps her cool. Roan can’t help but be impressed by the young leader. Not many people can stay calm in the face of his mother’s wrath.

Lexa speaks, her voice filling the room. “You have been found guilty of this, and of moving your army into Skaikru territory. You are hereby ordered to stand down your army and to answer for your crimes.”

“Skaikru territory?!” The Queen thunders, “I was not aware these invaders now had the right over our land. That land has been ours for the winter months going back generations.”

“They have been recognized as the thirteenth Clan,” Lexa replies, unyielding. “The punishment for your crime is death.”

A ripple runs around the room. Roan had expected that there would be serious repercussions, but to put a Queen to death? That is just not done.

A fraught moment passes as Nia slowly examines Lexa. When she speaks again, her words are weighted, soft and deadly. “I sense the spirit is weak in you, Commander. I call for a vote of no confidence.”    

So _this_ is his mother’s grand plan? A vote of no confidence? It actually seems pretty straightforward for his mother.

“ _Nor Heda no mor!_ ” The cry comes first from the Boat People Ambassador, but soon it reverberates around the room as all twelve ambassadors stand.

Lexa sits in composed silence, refusing to respond until everyone has made themselves heard.

“What is this?” Clarke asks, her voice betraying the first hint of nerves.

“This is a coup,” Lexa says simply.

“This is the law. _Our law._ A unanimous vote questioning the continued presence of the spirit in the Commander must be answered.”

“It’s not unanimous.” Clarke’s voice is fierce now, and the Queen is quick to snap back at her with equal force.

Lexa interrupts them both as she rises from her throne and descends.

“If you think me unfit to command, issue the challenge. Let’s get on with it.”

“Very well. You are challenged.”

“And I accept your challenge.”

The proclamation of the challenge rings through the throne room. Single combat. To the death.

The Queen is asked to pick her champion and, for the first time since she’s entered the room, Nia turns to look directly at him.

“My son. Roan, Prince of Azgeda.”

Roan feels his blood turn to ice in his veins. There it is. His mother’s trick. After everything he’s been through to get back here, to be recognized once more, she’s going to throw him away again. Sacrifice him to save herself, just as before. Roan focuses all of his energy into keeping his face impassive, as he holds her gaze. He will not give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

The Commander, meanwhile, declares her intention of fighting for herself, as he’s sure his mother knew she would. So now it is on him to either kill the Commander or die. He watches the self-satisfied smirk on his mother’s face with absolute hatred.

He refuses to be her pawn anymore.

 

* * *

 

**Nathan, March 4th 2150**

 

The armory is drafty and dark. It’s kind of grim down here, but Miller finds it oddly peaceful. He moves through the stacks of rifles, checking them for damage, cleaning them, sorting through and itemizing the remaining ammunition. It’s dry, boring work, but it gives him something to do with his hands, and a place to focus the restless anxiety that’s been burning through him lately.

He should be at dinner, he should be with Bryan, he should be a better boyfriend. But Bryan has been different since the destruction of the Mountain and there’s a dangerous fission of energy in camp that has Miller on edge. So, he’s avoiding, because that feels safer than getting himself into fights with the people he loves.

“Hey.”

Miller spins around to find Bellamy look at him through the wire mesh of the armory door. The criss-crossing metal bars of the door cut up Bellamy’s features into sharp cross-sections of light and dark.

“Hey,” Miller replies. “What’s up?”

“I was just passing, didn’t know you were here. But I’m glad I caught you. Pike wants to meet to review supplies in preparation for the vote tomorrow. Come on, we’re going to be late.”

Miller hesitates. This is exactly the sort of conversation he’s been trying to avoid all day. “I um, I’m not sure I’m coming.”

“What?”

Miller drops the rifle he’d been cleaning onto the bench and goes to lean against the armory door. “I mean I’ve listened to the guy, but I just can’t vote for him.”

“How can you want to vote for Kane?”

“I know Kane isn’t perfect. Hell, he locked me up and tried to kill me, but he knows what he’s doing.”  

“He’s been lying to us.”

“Come on, we all knew that little patch of dirt wasn’t going to suddenly start sprouting enough vegetables to feed four hundred people, don’t act like it’s some big cover up. He just didn’t want to cause panic, he has other plans.”

“You mean creating deals with the people who have been killing us ever since we got down here?”

“Yes! It’s called making peace, Bellamy. Of all people I thought you would have understood that. I know they’ve killed us, don’t act like I’ve forgotten. We’ve also killed plenty of them too, and we can’t hold a grudge forever. We’ve already made peace with Trikru haven’t we? The rest of the clans will follow.”

“They were ready to let us all die in the Mountain-”

“And you’re trying to tell me that you and Clarke wouldn’t have done the exact same thing if your places had been reversed?”

“So what?” Bellamy throws his hands up in frustration, rattling the mesh door. “You’re willing to just risk everything that we’ve built here, risk everyone’s lives on the hope that the Grounders will fall in line just because Kane _asks them to_? You’re being naive. How can you trust Kane?”

“How can you not trust Clarke?”

“She’s made the wrong call before, and she’s making the exact same mistake this time. We can’t trust them. Lexa’s betrayed us before and we have no proof she won’t do it again. Meanwhile, there is an army that has already attacked us marching towards our door and you want us to do nothing?!”

“But they haven’t moved to attack. They’re just trying to scare us, trying to provoke us. Attacking them now would be playing right into their hands! If we attack them now then we can kiss any idea of peace goodbye. No supplies, no food, no trade, and then what’s your plan for getting us through the winter?”

“Pike has plans for that too.”

“Stealing the land away from Trikru settlements? The very people who were the first to make peace with us? The first to trust us? Bellamy listen to yourself-”  

“You’re not seeing the situation clearly.”

“ _You’re_ the one not seeing this-”

“Can you see colour right now?”

Miller’s stomach drops to the floor. “ _Excuse me_?”

“Colour is a distraction. It blinds you, Miller. Makes you soft.”

The idea that Bellamy would use his own match as ammunition against him is more than Miller can take. “You can go now,” he says, struggling to keep the fury from his voice. “Don’t want to keep Pike waiting.”

“You’re not seeing clearly,” Bellamy says, and Miller is suddenly very pleased there’s a door between them, or he might seriously consider punching Bellamy in the face. “This is the only way.”  

“We’ll see about that.”

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, March 4th 2150**

 

“This is insane! Lexa-!”

Clarke hurries after her through the drafty corridors of the Tower, half-running to keep up with Lexa’s quick strides. She reaches out for Lexa’s arm, her fingers just brushing the leather of her jacket.

Without warning, Lexa spins around on her heel, her eyes flashing dangerously. For a moment Clarke feels the full force of Lexa _kom Trikru_ , Commander of Polis and the Allied Clans. Then she blinks and the hurricane behind her eyes dims to something calmer, more restrained.

“This is our way, I would not expect you to understand.”

“I _understand_ just fine,” Clarke bristles. “This is about your pride. You can’t just fight someone to the death because they disagree with you-”

“Of course I can. That is the only way to deal with an enemy.”

Clarke blinks, momentarily shocked into silence. “I thought you believed in a better way. Blood must not have blood.”

“This is different. Blood debts are festering wounds that mean my people will constantly be at war with one another. This is a matter of rule. I cannot hope to uphold the coalition when the _Azplana_ and those loyal to her are whispering dissention into the minds of my ambassadors. Defeating her in combat is the only way to silence their mutiny before it begins.”

“She’s not even the one doing the fighting! She’s sending someone else - why won't you?”

“My decisions are none of your concern,” Lexa answers curtly.

“You’re wrong,” Clarke counters, her voice rising, “your decisions do concern me. I am concerned for you.”

Until she says it, Clarke hadn’t really allowed herself to acknowledge how true it is. Against all odds and probably in defiance of good sense, Lexa has become someone she cares about, someone who brings warmth back into her blood, someone she could see- Clarke stops herself. No good can come from that line of thinking, and anyway, it doesn’t matter right now.

What matters now is keeping Lexa alive. The idea of losing her, of being left alone in this violent, foreign, political city fills Clarke with dread.

“I can’t lose you.”

Lexa’s features soften, briefly, before again turning defensive. “Why are you so sure I will lose?”

“I’m not-”

“I’ve been playing this game a lot longer than you have, Clarke. I was crushing rebellious armies before you even knew we existed.”

A breeze cuts like knives through the wide Tower window, sending a shiver down Clarke’s spine. “I understand.”

“I don’t think you do,” Lexa replies. The anger is gone from her expression, replaced with a determined frown. “Follow me, I want to show you something.” She turns and leads Clarke silently down the hall. They walk for some time, past all the parts of the Tower that Clarke is familiar with, down several cool concrete staircases, and through a number of ancient rusted metal doors.

Eventually, Lexa ushers her through a small door on the western side of the building. Clarke steps inside warily, unsure what to expect. The room is small and cramped and surprisingly warm: threadbare carpet covers the floor and there’s a window on one side, miraculously with its glass still intact. A pair of moth-eaten grey armchairs are tucked against the wall beside the window, a small stack of real paper books heaped in a pile beside them. In the centre of the room sits a large wooden table and chairs. Several lamps have already been lit, wax candles dripping in what would have once been diffusers for overhead florescent lights.

“This is my study,” Lexa says after a moment. She seems somehow bashful, and it strikes Clarke that she’s been invited into somewhere private and personal, somewhere special for Lexa.

“It’s very nice.”

Lexa gives her a hesitant smile, but then the moment is gone. Her expression turns business-like again. “Come over here.”

At the wooden table, Lexa rifles for a moment through a stack of papers, and eventually pulls out a large map. As she unfolds it, Clarke can see that it’s marked with hard black lines and annotated with the names of the Twelve Clans. At its full size, the map covers the surface of the table and stretches to the edge of the Western Plains Clan before giving way to territories unknown.

Clarke recognizes the region, from the maps they had on the Ark, but she’s never seen the Clan borders marked out before. They stretch farther than she thought. At a glance, it’s clear that Clarke and her people have barely encountered a fraction of the territory Lexa is responsible for.  

“Wow,” she says under her breath.

“Clarke, when I became Commander the Clans were in chaos. Pillaging, theft and raids were rampant throughout the Eastern clans.” She indicates with a gentle swipe of her hand across the region Clarke is familiar with - the Desert Clan, the Azgeda, and the Trikru. “The Broadleaf Clan was succumbing to a flu epidemic that killed half their _gona_ in a single season. The Lake People and the Glowing Forest Clans were both sitting on rich and rare natural resources, and naming increasingly outrageous prices for their commodities. All while the Plains Riders were in the midst of a brutal drought that nearly wiped them out entirely.”

Lexa huffs out a tense sigh and moves away from the table to collapse into one of the armchairs by the window. Clarke follows her lead and takes the chair opposite, settling into the old worn cushions.

Lexa rests her right ankle on her left knee, leaning forward to look at Clarke intently. “What do you know of our history?”

“Not much,” Clarke admits, thinking of the bits and pieces she’s picked up from Lincoln, or Niylah, or Roan.

“The name of Commander is, perhaps, somewhat misleading,” Lexa begins. “It was the First Commander’s title. It has been inherited since, as her spirit passes through the generations. But the Commander is not, traditionally, a military role.”

Clarke remains quiet as she takes this in, though she can’t help wondering about this first Commander. What was she a Commander of?

“Until my ascension,” Lexa continues, “the Commander was little more than a figurehead. She would settle petty disputes, participate in the solstice and the seasonal festivals. She would receive penance and, sometimes, answer calls to battle. But the governing of the Clans was left to the Clan leaders - Kings and Queens, normally, who would command their own armies and care for their people in their own way.”

“I didn’t know that,” Clarke replies, but it makes sense. She knew that Lexa’s Coalition of the Twelve Clans was monumental, hard-won, and delicate. It was fragile enough that Gustus had been willing to betray Lexa to try and protect it.  

“When I ascended…” Lexa pauses, evidently lost in her own memories. Her gaze leaves Clarke and moves to the window, her eyes taking in the city below them. “I can’t describe it, the feeling when the Commander’s spirit selects you to carry on her legacy. It is power, and humility, and strength. Most of all, it is the burden of memory.”

Clarke doesn’t really understand what that means, but something in Lexa’s tone keeps her from asking.

“I carry their spirits with me. All of the Commanders, from the first down, leave something of themselves behind when their spirit passes on. And I could not bear to let their legacy be for nothing. I would have _peace_ , real and true and lasting, even if it meant going to war. I want my legacy to be one of peace.”

Clarke nods, though Lexa still isn’t looking at her. “You’ve done it,” she says, “you achieved the peace you strove for.”

Lexa’s answering smile is twisted and pained. “Did I?”

With no answer to this, they both lapse into silence. Clarke finds her gaze is drawn, irresistibly, to the smooth line of Lexa’s jaw, the profile of her nose and lips, illuminated by the grey sunset as she looks out the wide window to the city below them.   

“You did,” Clarke repeats into the quiet between them. “The peace will hold.”

“To keep it, I must demonstrate that I am more than a figurehead.”

And now they’re at the point. Realization sinks like a stone in the pit of Clarke’s stomach. “Demonstrate it, for example, by fighting Prince Roan to the death?”

Lexa nods curtly. “When I first proposed bringing all Clans together under a single coalition, the idea was not universally popular. I had to face rebellious armies from the Azgeda, the Blue Cliff Clans and the Delphi Clans. I defeated them in open, honest combat. Grand ideas, oratory, these only get you so far with Grounders, Clarke. First and foremost, we respond to strength: strength of will, of purpose, or of physical ability.”

Clarke reaches out, resting her hand on Lexa’s upthrust knee. “Well then, I guess you’ll need to have all three when you battle Roan tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

**Echo, March 4th 2150**

 

Echo’s head snaps back as she’s caught unawares by her opponent’s wooden staff, which collides hard into her left side. Seconds later, a fist is swinging towards her face, slamming against her cheek. Spinning and dizzy, Echo staggers back a pace as blood fills her mouth. Spitting, she lets out a feral shout before running forward again to re-engage her opponent. The hulking _Sankru_ warrior leers at her as she lashes out with her own blunt staff, swiping at his knees. The blow doesn’t connect, but it forces him to step back onto the defensive.

Buying herself some space, Echo shakes out her spinning head and refocus on the fight at hand. Around the miniature arena, the jeers and laughter of the assembled crowd ring in her ears. On all sides, spectators are placing bets or shouting curses at her, or at her opponent, or at both of them.  

Determined, Echo presses back, forcing her opponent back onto the defensive. The next few minutes are a blissful blur of adrenaline and sweat and the satisfying feeling of her weapon connecting - repeatedly - with its target. The match ends with Echo’s staff at her opponent’s throat, her foot on his sternum, and his feet outside of the sparring ring.

Her victory is greeted with a loud chorus of cheers and boos, depending on who the crowd had placed their bets on.

Echo steps back and helps her defeated foe to his feet. The Desert Clan warrior gives her a sullen nod and limps off to tend to his bruised ego. She smiles to the growing crowd, giving them a small bow of acknowledgement, before leaving to seek out the bookie at the edge of the crowd.

She feels good as she makes her way out of the ring. Concern for Roan and his fight tomorrow has filled her blood with a nervous energy that’s been begging for release all day. These nerves have been satiated, somewhat, following a fight of her own. She hadn’t known that Queen Nia would name Roan as her champion, though perhaps she should have anticipated it. It is surprising, but Echo has no reason to doubt the Queen’s motives now: after everything she’s done to try and get Roan back, Nia would not risk his life if she were not confident of his victory tomorrow.

Echo wishes she could share her Queen’s certainty.

These thoughts consume her as she locates and approaches the bookie who accepted her bet upon entering the ring.

“My winnings?” she asks expectantly, holding out her palm to the small grey-eyed man.

The bookie hands her money over with a scowl.

“Good fight.” A voice says from behind her.

Echo spins around to find Roan smirking at her. He sidles up, spinning a small knife nimbly between his fingers.

“Prince.” She looks him up and down once. He’s wearing his brother’s white fur. Echo feels a sharp pain in her heart at the sight of it, but she breaths through it. She’s glad he accepted the gift. He looks good. He looks like the Prince that he is now. “I did not expect to see you out tonight.”

“And yet, here I am.” He spreads his arms out wide in an overworked gesture of greeting.

“So I see. Well Prince, goodnight. Good fortune in the challenge tomorrow.”

She gives him a curt incline of her head, then makes to leave. A warrior the night before a fight to the death is delicate. All she can do for Roan now is make sure that he focuses tonight, because she needs him to win tomorrow.   

“That’s it?” He calls to her retreating back.

Against her better judgement, Echo turns back around. “What’s it?”.

“You bring down one measly second-rate _Sankru_ fighter, and then call it quits? Cash out when the night’s still young?”

“A _Sankru_ fighter twice my size, three times my weight, and built like a tree,” Echo feels the need to point out.

“Mmm, well, maybe you should pick on someone your own size,” Roan taunts, flourishing his knife in such an unnecessarily dramatic fashion that Echo can’t help rolling her eyes. He should put that away before he gets arrested for carrying weapons in Polis.

“No knives in the ring,” the bookie interrupts, beating Echo to the punch. “Staffs only.”

“Spoilsport,” Roan shoots back, but he obediently puts his knife away, tucking it back into a hidden pocket on the inside of his thick coat.

“Whaddya say, Echo?” he turns back to her. “For old time’s sake?”

Echo takes in Roan’s slightly wild expression, the desperation flitting behind his eyes like a spooked animal.

“You should be saving your strength for tomorrow,” she tells him.

He’s too far away to say for sure, but Echo suspects she would be able to smell beer on his breath if he were close enough.

“Good point,” he replies with a sarcastic bite, “wouldn’t want to disrupt mother’s plans by dying at a time that’s _inconvenient_ to her.”

“You’re an idiot,” she snaps, suddenly angry. “You understand nothing of what the Queen has done for you-”

“Oh yes, sitting back and doing nothing while her last living son was banished must have been so difficult for her.”

Echo spent her entire childhood looking up to Roan, along with his brother. Now, watching the swaying, terrified man before her, she’s struck by how childish he really is.

“Do not speak of what you do not understand,” Echo warns him.

“I understand _plenty_. I understand that my mother’s love for me extends only to where I may be of value. I understand that her vendetta against Lexa will lead her to sacrifice anyone and everyone along the way. I understand she wishes  that I had been the one to die in the Rebellion instead of-”

 _Crack_. Echo slams Roan in the jaw with her staff and watches, with some satisfaction, as he stumbles back in shock. The blow has done little to ease the roar of fury in her blood, but it’s enough for her to regain her composure. How can he be such a fool as to not understand how important his life is?  

“I said _shut up_.”

Roan cups the side of his face, but makes no move to retaliate. He just glares at her.

“Go back to your chamber,” Echo speaks her command low and hard, “Drink some water. Wash. Sleep. And then live through tomorrow.”

She drops her staff at the stunned bookie’s feet and turns away, pushing through the crowd and out of the square.

 

 


	11. March 5th 2150: The Queen’s Plan

**Monroe, March 5th 2150**

Cheers erupt from the centre of camp.

Monroe and Harper share a look from their guard position by the main gates of Arkadia. They’re too far away to hear specifically what’s being announced, but Monroe knows what’s happening. Those cheers can only mean one thing. Pike has been elected Chancellor.

A tension releases inside Monroe’s chest, a smile of relief flashing on her face. This is it. No more waiting. They’re going to take back control of their survival. Who knows, under Pike and Bellamy’s leadership, they might just get through this after all.

“I guess it’s happened then.” Harper’s voice sounds strained and nervous, which Monroe doesn’t understand. Can’t she see this is a good thing?

“About time too, huh?” Monroe replies, smiling at Harper and trying to get her to relax.

It doesn’t work. Harper’s expression goes shuttered and she falls quiet.

They don’t have time to talk about it anyway, because within minutes Monroe can hear the march of footsteps moving towards them from the yard. Pike’s clearly wasting no more time. It’s taken them most of the evening to tally all of the votes, the night is already pushing into the first hours of the morning, but the time for action is now. Monroe watches as a select group of fighters – mainly from Farm Station – arm themselves and assemble near the gate.

Vividly, Monroe recalls the last time she and Harper were on guard duty, facing Pike and Bellamy. This time, Monroe has no hesitation. She steps to the side, giving them access to the gate as they approach. On her other side, Harper remains in position, her mouth set in a grim line as she eyes up Pike, his men, and their guns.

She plants her feet a little firmer in the ground, her hands tightening into fists. A shock of fear spikes through Monroe. Why is Harper trying to fight this? Doesn’t she understand that Pike is protecting them?

“ _Harper_ ,” she hisses. ‘What are you doing?”

Harper lets out a breath and relaxes her hands. Hesitating just a moment longer, Harper finally steps aside without a word.

Monroe’s heart is still beating a little wildly in her chest. She knows her friend has trouble trusting Pike, disagrees with his plans even, but Harper doesn’t understand. She never met Lexa. She wasn’t there. She didn’t watch as Lexa turned and left them all for dead after swearing to fight by their side. Finn died for that treaty and in the end it meant nothing. It’s a nice idea, becoming the thirteenth Clan and all, but Monroe has no more trust left for treaties. Not when there is so much at stake. The Ice Nation have already shown themselves to be an enemy. Gina deserved so much better. All those who died in the Mountain explosion did.

She’s sick of waiting around for attacks: this time, for the first time, they’re going to control the terms of the fight.

Monroe meets Bellamy’s eye as the gate swings open and the warriors march out behind Pike. She gives him a short nod, an offer of respect and support. His gaze is set, ready for the task at hand.  

As she watches them all disappear into the night she can’t help but think, maybe she will finally get some sleep tonight.

 

* * *

 

 

**Clarke, 5th March 2150**

 

Her whole life, Clarke has riled against any feeling of powerlessness. Trapped somewhere, she will _always_ opt to fight her way out of a situation before she allows someone else to control her fate. She fought her way through a Grounder army, out of a hostile Mountain, and back in again. Even in the most desperate of circumstances, Clarke has always taken some measure of comfort from the fact that her choices are still hers.  

So, if there’s one thing she can’t stand, it’s being a spectator.

The morning is clear and bright, sunlight cutting through the arena. It’s the perfect conditions for a fight to the death. Around Clarke on all sides, the crowd cheers and jeers at equal volume as first Lexa emerges into the ring, and then Roan. Surrounding her, Clarke feels the bustle of rowdy, drunk civilians, pressing forward for a better view of the action.

It’s not that she hasn’t tried to prevent all of this, she thinks as she watches Roan and Lexa bow to one another. Clarke had even managed to sneak into Roan’s chambers this morning, desperate to convince him that his mother is using him. Roan never asked for this, never volunteered to kill Lexa, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. All he’d ever wanted was to go home, and instead he became a pawn in his mother’s game. She thinks - she hopes - that Roan listened to Clarke’s pleas. Either way, Clarke has done all she can to bring Roan to their side, now she can only watch as the survival of her people hangs in the balance.

The fight unfolds like a spectacle, everything happening faster and louder and more immediate than she’d anticipated. Clarke barely has time to feel a flash of fear as she watches Roan’s spear cut down towards Lexa’s chest, before Lexa’s blocked it, or pushed back and swung her own weapon under Roan’s outstretched arm. The steps are too quick for Clarke to track properly, and she doesn’t know enough about fighting to be able to anticipate any of their moves before they happen. She feels like she’s back on the Ark, watching one of her dad’s old soccer recordings. She’s nothing more than a member of the audience, always one step behind the athletes.

It’s over much sooner than she’d expected. It can’t have been ten minutes before Roan is on his back, his own weapon pointed at his throat. Lexa stands over him, the spear poised to strike.

Relief is potent in Clarke’s blood, but it’s accompanied by a rush of regret. Clarke can’t help but grieve that Roan has to die for all of this. She knows this is the Grounders’ way, but not for the first time, Clarke wonders whether it might still be possible to do things differe-

 _Whoosh_. The spear flies in a high arc, spinning in a tight circle. It hits its target with an unpleasant squelching noise and a dull thud.

The shouts of the crowd die instantly. Absolute silence fills the arena. Stunned, Clarke’s mouth falls open in shock, her brain scrambling to catch up to what she’s seeing. Roan is still alive, his chest rising and falling as he stares up at the stands.

Nia, the _Azplana_ , Queen of the Ice Nation, slumps down dead in the stands, her son’s spear protruding from her chest.

Lexa stands at attention, her feet planted in the dust, her shoulders square and her jaw tight. “This ends now,” she shouts, her words cold and clipped, carrying across the shocked crowd.

At her feet, Roan pushes himself up to standing and retreats quickly into the crowd, who part to let him pass.

Somewhere, Clarke can hear a scream of rage.

 

* * *

 

 

**Roan, March 5th 2150**

 

Roan walks away from the fighting area as fast as he can, refusing to look back at the chaos that has broken out behind him.

“Roan!” It’s Echo’s voice, desperate and broken, calling after him. “ROAN!”

He doesn’t slow his pace or even acknowledge her as he starts to press his way through the dusty city roads towards Polis Tower. The narrow streets are eerily empty, as the whole city had turned up for the fight.

“Roan, _stop_! Please!” Finally Echo catches up, throwing herself into his path. “Talk to me.” Her eyes are wild and shining with grief. “We have to figure out what to do!”

“About what?”

She looks at him as if he’s just spoken another language. “What do you mean ‘about what’? Lexa just killed our Queen, your Mother! What are we going to do about her?”

“We’re not going to do anything about Lexa.” Roan tries to push past her, but Echo is quicker and cuts him off.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What happened back there? I’ve seen you fight all my life. You were barely in the ring. It’s like you _wanted_ Lexa to win.”

Roan doesn’t answer.

Echo’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “What kind of coward-”

“It’s not cowardice to wish for peace,” Roan bites.

“You call _this_ peace!”

“It’s better than war!”

The truth seems to dawn on her then, ugly and inescapable. She takes a step away from him, disgust and horror mingling on her face.

“You knew what she was going to do.”

“My mother was happy to let me die, all I did was return the favour.”

“You were never supposed to die today, you _idiot_. You were suppose to kill Lexa!”

“And what if I couldn’t do that?”

“You were dishonest enough to plot to kill your own mother, you couldn’t figure out a way to rig a damn fight in your favour?”

He hesitates for a moment, remembering the small bottle that had been handed to him this morning, pressed into his palm by a passing stranger, he’d thought by mistake. It had been a vial of poison, which he understood now, must have been meant for the tip of his blade. Had this been Nia at work, silently making provision for him? Why could she never just _speak_ to him, as an equal?

“You ungrateful fool,” mutters Echo in a disgusted undertone.

“What have I to be grateful to her for?” He snaps, peevish. “All she ever did was demonstrate to me, time and time again, how dispensable I was.”

“You truly don’t understand anything, do you?” There is genuine pity in Echo’s voice now, which Roan finds irks him even more than the disgust did. “Do you have any idea what it was like in the palace once you were gone? Once you were both gone. The whole kingdom mourned, and the Queen locked herself in her study and thought of nothing but how to undermine and overthrow Lexa so she could get you back.”

“She could have just not agreed to my banishment in the first place.”

“Of course she couldn’t have! Denying your banishment would have meant all out war against Lexa’s troops. Lexa had the other eleven Clans behind her and our army was decimated. There was no other way.”

Echo’s words sink in as Roan considers them.

“All she wanted after your banishment was to find a way to goad Lexa into breaking the coalition. If Lexa could be seen to be at fault, then the rest of the clans would break from her and once they did Lexa would no longer hold any power over Azgeda. Nia kidnapped Lexa’s _keryon-ai_ and cut off her head to provoke her.”

“Costia?” Roan had known her when she was a child. He’d helped train her. He remembers the laughing, spirited young warrior with a pang of phantom guilt.

Echo nods in confirmation.

“But it didn’t work.”

“No, it didn’t. The Queen was out of her mind with worry after that. Getting you back was her absolute obsession. Finally, last summer, Nia sent me on a secret mission. I was to find you and bring you back home in disguise. I searched for many weeks, but all I found was the inside of a Mount Weather cage.”

“You went looking for me?”

“Yes. I did.” _Ungrateful fool_.

Roan remembers Clarke this morning, trying to goad him into turning on his mother. _How much longer before she finds another reason to sacrifice you_? Her words had struck a chord, needled at old wounds that never healed. But she was wrong, and Roan had been wrong to listen to her. His mother had been many things - manipulative, secretive, proud, and vicious - but if Echo is right, then her love for him had never wavered.

And of course Echo is right. For better or worse, Echo has never spoken anything less than the absolute truth to him in all the years they’ve known each other.

“Echo, I’m sor-”

“Don’t.” A cold distance is in her eyes now. A detachment Roan has never seen in her before. “The Queen is dead. Long live the King.” She gives a slow bow without breaking eye contact and then tears off in the opposite direction, back towards the arena.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short one today, but lot's more to come - would love to hear your thoughts!


	12. March 6th 2150: Trojan Warfare

**Lincoln, March 6th 2150**

 

Arkadia is different now. It’s palpable. Lincoln feels it in the air, in the way people turn to watch him as he moves across the camp. The people have spoken, and they are done with peace. They have been hurt and now they’re clearly out for blood. The question is how much blood it will take to satisfy them. Lincoln has heard _jus drein jus daun_ enough times in his life to know that it never truly ends.

The sun has only just risen and the golden light glints around them as he follows Octavia towards the mess hall. Pike’s team is rumored to have just returned, all of them uninjured. It is a remarkable feat to bring all your warriors successfully back from battle without a scratch on them. Too remarkable. The thought makes the hairs on the back of Lincoln’s neck stand on end.

He follows Octavia, silently vigilant, as she searches for her brother. If he’s hurt she’ll be devastated, but if he’s unharmed he thinks it’s likely she’ll punch him in the face.

As soon as they cross the threshold into the mess hall, he knows there’s going to be trouble. Heads twist towards them, and Lincoln catches the unmistakable looks of distrust and malice in their eyes. He tries to grab Octavia and leave immediately, but she is oblivious to the scathing on strangers’ faces as she scans the tables for Bellamy.

Then a voice carries purposefully above the murmur of the crowd. “But how do we know they aren’t all working together?”

Lincoln turns, but before he can ascertain who’s speaking another voice is answering it.

“They have a Coalition don’t they?”

A third voice cries to the whole room, “They’ll protect their own!”

Lincoln catches up to Octavia, who is now in the middle of the room and is looking around with thunder in her eyes. Lincoln realizes with a pang of something like guilt that they are looking at her with the same suspicious glares. Dressed in leathers, with her hair braided back out of her face, she looks for all the world like a Grounder. That is how her people see her now.

He puts his hand on her back and starts to lead her towards the door, speaking low into her ear. “We should go.”

“It’s not right,” another voice is shouting now, “feeding and taking care of Grounders when we barely have enough food for ourselves.”

Octavia jerks against the hold Lincoln has on her hip, twisting to find and confront the voice. Lincoln tightens his grip and quickens their pace. They are almost at the door.

“They’re probably spies!”

Roars of agreement follows this statement. Out of nowhere a hawk of spit, wet and unmistakeable, lands on the back of Lincoln’s neck. Resentment and shame surge in his chest, but he battles it back down. He knows a losing battle when he sees one, and refuses to rise to their bait. Without turning around, he pulls Octavia out the door and around to the side of the building.

They don’t stop until they are out of sight and earshot of the crowd inside. Lincoln’s blood is boiling, his ears are ringing and he can still feel the rapidly cooling trail of spit on the back of his neck. His stomach feels like he just drank a shot of acid, but however sick he feels is nothing compared to Octavia. When he finally releases his hold around her lower back, she is spitting with righteous fury. Her cheeks are flushed a dark scarlet, her eyes flashing with unbridled rage. Immediately, she turns to stomp back inside.

Lincoln intervenes again, his hands moving right back around her chest, pinning her. “Let me go!” she howls, straining against him.

“And what are you going to do?” he challenges in a low voice, his lips against her ear. “Go back in there and fight them? All of them?”

“They’re wrong!”

“Of course they’re wrong, Octavia, but you can’t fight a mob.”

She twists around in his arms to face him. “They need to be told the truth! They need to be told how wrong they are!”

“You can’t reason with a mob either.” Gently, his loosens his hold.

Their eyes meet and Octavia stills completely, ceasing her attempts to break free.

“This is bad,” Lincoln continues, his hands moving to rest on her shoulders. “Very bad. We need to be careful.”

Octavia turns to look around at the rest of the camp. Suddenly, everyone is a threat.

“Promise me, Octavia, that you will be careful, that you won’t do anything rash.”

Octavia looks up at him again and nods, but there’s still a tension in her jaw, a fire in her eyes, that leaves Lincoln sick with worry. He wants to press the point, but he knows it won’t help. If he pushes too hard it’ll only lead to a fight, and she’s liable to do the opposite just to demonstrate that her actions are her own. Not that that’s even in question. Lincoln couldn’t stop her from tearing the camp down with her bare hands if that’s what she set her mind to.

Looking over his shoulder, Octavia’s eyes land on something and focus in.

“Bellamy!”

She moves around Lincoln and begins to pelt across the yard, calling his name again. Lincoln turns and finally sees him. Bellamy. Sitting on a stump on his own at the edge of camp, looking out at the treeline. Lincoln can’t read his expression from here, but he already feels uneasy as he sets off after Octavia. As they reach him, Lincoln knows for sure that something is wrong. Bellamy has a look around his eyes that Lincoln has only seen a handful of times in his life. Always on a warrior who has witnessed something truly horrible on the battlefield.

“Bell, what happened out there?” Octavia demands in a whisper, dropping to her knees so she’s at his eye level. She places a hand on his knee, trying to pull his attention towards her.

For a moment it looks like Bellamy hasn’t heard, then slowly he turns his face to look at his sister. Octavia flinches at the hollow, horrified expression on his face, but she doesn’t move her hand from his knee. His own hand is shaking when he braces it on hers.

“We sacked Troy.”

“Wh-what?” Even as she asks it’s clear that she understands. She withdraws her hand, revulsion creeping across her face.

Lincoln vaguely remembers a story Octavia told him a little while ago, about an ancient battle that lasted ten long years and ended only when the one army snuck into the other’s city, Troy, and killed them all in their sleep. His stomach turns over in disgust.

Bellamy stands and starts to move away. Octavia launches to her feet behind him, the fight back in her eyes. “You didn’t need to do that!”

Bellamy stops and looks back over his shoulder. “Maybe, maybe not. It’s done now.” There’s a finality in his voice that silences any further protest Octavia may have. She stands still, watching in stunned silence as he walks away from her.

 

* * *

 

**Octavia, March 6th 2150**

 

After he’s gone, Octavia sinks with Lincoln into the stump Bellamy left abandoned. She finds herself reaching out blindly for Lincoln's hand, gripping at him with a bruising force. It helps, just having him by her side. It grounds her, gives her focus.

“I need to see it.” Her voice is so soft that for a moment she’s not sure Lincoln’s heard her.

“Why?” he replies after a moment. “If it is as Bellamy said, there’s nothing to be done.”

“I know.” But she doesn’t know, not really, which is the whole point. She doesn’t _know_ , she can’t know for sure until she’s seen it, until she’s witnessed what her own brother is capable of. Unless she can see it for herself, she’ll never be able to accept it. _God_. Her stomach is still rolling with revulsion, but she can’t think about it yet, she can’t. With Lincoln’s hand still in hers, she stands abruptly and marches the familiar path towards Kane’s office. Only when she’s halfway there does she remember her mistake and stall on the dirt path. Kane’s office doesn’t belong to him anymore. So without it, where would he be? The answer’s so obvious that she barely needs to hesitate.

The Medical Bay is chilly and empty when Octavia and Lincoln arrive. Or, well, not exactly empty; it contains the exact two people Octavia had been expecting to find.

“Octavia?” Kane and Abby both look up from their desks as Octavia marches in and closes the door behind Lincoln. “Do you need something?”

“Did you hear about what happened? What Pike’s people did?”

She can tell, by the twist in their features, that yes, they have heard. Thank god, because Octavia’s really not sure she would have had the strength to describe it to them.

“I’m going to go.”

“Go, where?” Abby asks with a frown.

“I want to check on the Azgeda army. I can report back, turn it from rumour to fact. Maybe there are survivors…” she doesn’t really believe it even as the words leave her mouth, but whatever convinces Abby to let her go.

Abby and Kane look at each other, a whole conversation passing unspoken between them.

“Pike will never let you go,” Kane says eventually. “Movements in and out of camp are carefully monitored.”

“Every camp has blind spots,” Lincoln pipes up from his position by the door.

“I suppose you’re wanting to go as well?” Kane levels him with a look.

Lincoln looks from Octavia and back to Kane. “There is still a kill order out for me,” he hedges after a moment. “I will go, though, if-”

“No, it’s okay,” Octavia silences him with a hand on his arm. “It’s safer for me to go alone. Less noticeable than if we both slip out.” His replying look of concern is touching, but unnecessary. “I can handle it,” she assures him, “and I’ll be within range the whole time.”

He nods, pressing his own hand over the one still resting on his arm.

Kane drops his pen onto the desk with a clatter, looking drawn. “Fine. But you’re taking a radio, I want you in open contact - anything goes sideways, you radio in immediately, understand?”

“I can work with those terms.”

 

* * *

 

**Lexa, March 6th 2150**

 

They smell it before they see it.

The stench of death is thick and heavy in the air as Clarke, Lexa, and Roan crest the last eastward hill on their ride to Arkadia. Their horses wicker and worry at the earth, even in animals such a smell induces an instinctive spike of fear. Lexa pulls on her horse's reins, jerking the animal to an uneasy stop. She feels Clarke similarly lurch to a stop by her side. Roan, some paces ahead of them, tips his head back, tasting the stinking air. Then, without even motioning to Clarke or Lexa, he veers off course, banking north by north-east and urging his beast up a steeply-cresting ridge. No doubt tracking the foul smell.

“Roan!” Lexa snaps, but he pays no heed.

Tsking, Lexa and Clarke spur their horses in pursuit, a shared look of concern passing between them. Whatever awaits them on the other side of the ridge, Lexa is very sure she will not like it.

True enough, she does not like it _at all_.

Death is like a creature, grotesque and mutilated, sprawling across the low valley for a quarter-mile in every direction. Ice Nation banners are like felled trees in the mud, their white emblem ripped and stained. But it’s not the banners that are making Clarke gag behind her, or turning Lexa’s blood cold with horror. Hundreds of Azgeda lay dead in the mud.

Feeling numb, Lexa dismounts, silently approaching what used to be the Azgeda army. Ahead of her, Roan has already dropped from his horse to inspect the killing field. It does not take long to learn two things, both of which fill Lexa with a sickening rush of dread. The first is that Azgeda are the only warriors who died here. Not a single foreign body lies among the army’s decimated camp. The second is that every single one of them were killed by bullets. Lexa has seen enough battlefields to know what this means: this was not a battlefield. It was an execution.

And the presence of bullets can only mean one thing...

“ _Skaikru_ ,” Roan says as Lexa draws level with him, pulling the thought right out of her mind. His voice is dancing dangerously between grief and rage.

This is very, very bad. Lexa’s heart bleeds for the loss of life surrounding her, but perhaps more for what this act of aggression signifies. She had allowed herself to believe, perhaps foolishly, that the tensions between the Clans might finally be over. With the death of Nia, the last insurrector, that they might, at last, have the peace that so many have already died for. The peace that Lexa has been fighting for so long to achieve. The very peace they are currently riding to Arkadia to announce. Just when she thought it was finally in her grasp, it again slips through her fingers. She grieves, not just for the army at her feet, but for all the others, still living, who might pay the price for it.

She is so _tired_ of watching blood seek blood in endless circles. If the new way is going to hold, _blood must not have blood_. Starting here, starting now.

Caught in his own, likely very different line of thinking, Roan is looking out at the field of murdered Azgeda, his face a riot of emotion. “Was this the peace you promised us, Commander?”

When she has no answer, she hears Roan groan and say under his breath, more to himself than to Lexa, “What have I done?”

His words send a terrified chill down Lexa’s spine. If she wants the new order to stick, it must start with protecting Clarke and her people.

“We will need to give them the funeral rites,” Lexa says quietly.

Roan nods. Grief seems to have snuffed out the fire in him, at least for now. “I will prepare the bonfire,” he says dully. Lexa watches, heartsick, as he moves off into the depths of the field, in search of kindling, of accelerant, and - if they can find any - of _blekfaya_.

“The Skaikru didn’t do this,” Clarke says. She has also dismounted and taken up a position at Lexa’s side. Her shaking voice belays the certainty of her words.

They look out at the dead. Roan’s is the only moving figure, out in the sea of still bodies.

“It’s not possible-”

“Clarke, we don’t have time to discuss it.” Lexa twists away from Roan to place herself in front of Clarke, pulling her attention. No good will come from denying Arkadia’s involvement within earshot of Roan; it is a fight she would surely lose. Not least because her people are almost certainly guilty of this. “We need to discover what has happened to your people.”

Before Clarke can so much as blink at this, they are distracted by a noise behind them, like a shout and a cry at once. They both turn to look, and watch as a young warrior scales the slope and comes to a stop beside the three abandoned horses. The woman’s eyes go wide as she takes in the massacre stretching out before her.

“Octavia?” Clarke calls to her.

The woman, Octavia, is staring in open-mouthed horror at the scene facing them. She shows no signs of having heard Clarke at all.

Clarke starts to run back towards the horses, Lexa following behind. “ _Octavia_!” she shouts again, her words more forceful.

This time, the girl’s focus snaps up, her attention landing briefly on Lexa, before zeroing in on Clarke. Her eyes are shining with grief, but no tears have fallen to her cheeks.  

“Clarke? I didn’t… I needed to… Oh my god.” Her eyes draw back away from Clarke and out to the bodies surrounding them.

“What happened here?” Lexa asks.

Octavia looks to Lexa, her horrified expression morphing rapidly into something hard and stubborn. She turns back to Clarke. “Arkadia, they-”

“How is that possible?” Clarke interrupts immediately. “I need to see Bellamy.”

“Bellamy’s a part of this.”

Clarke shakes her head, either in denial or shock. “I need to get to Arkadia, I need to speak with him.”

“You can’t just walk in, Clarke,” Lexa says firmly, placing a hand on Clarke’s shoulder. “We are, apparently, their enemy, and you have been living with us for weeks. As far as they are concerned, you may already be a traitor.” Even saying it, Lexa feels a sinking in her heart. They had been so close to a real, lasting peace.

“I can get you in,” Octavia says after a moment. “I snuck out, I can sneak us both back in.”

“Go quickly,” Lexa commands them both, casting an eye over her shoulder at Roan’s small figure, moving among the bodies. “Learn what you can.”

“What about you-?”

“Roan and I will remain here.” She swallows with some difficulty. “We need to pay funeral rites to the fallen Azgeda. Return to us here as soon as you are able.”

“I-” Clarke blinks, her face mingled confusion and grief as she looks from Octavia to the fallen army. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

Lexa sighs. “Retribution rarely does. Go, explain to your people that we have found a better way.”

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy, March 6th 2150**

 

Pike sits comfortably behind Kane’s desk, his hands folded across the tabletop, his papers spread out before him. _Except it’s not Kane’s desk anymore,_ Bellamy corrects himself, _it’s Pike’s._ Bellamy looks around the office that Pike has now claimed for his own. This was never officially the Chancellor’s office, Kane had been the one to set it up and worked out of it primarily, Abby never had an office and was usually to be found in the medical bay. Then again, when she wasn’t there she’d spent most of her time here with Kane. Bellamy supposes more than anything else space is at a premium: Pike needs an office, and there’s no way he’d let his defeated rival keep an office like this.

The furniture still all looks the same, but if feels different. Everything feels different to Bellamy now. He stands in the far corner of the room, among a handful of other men and women who, it seems, have become Pike’s inner circle. Wondering vaguely how he ended up here, Bellamy stands and listens.

“Our medical supplies are precious and our food is running low,” Hannah is in the centre of the room, her back ramrod straight as she speaks to Pike across his desk. “And yet we continue to feed and shelter these Grounders, when any one of them could turn spy and betray us. They are a threat, sir. The camp is worried and they’re demanding action.”

“Hannah, we’re talking about a dozen injured Grounders, most of whom are bedridden in our medical bay.” Pike counters reasonably.

“That doesn’t change the fact that the camp is scared and their call for action will only get louder,” Hannah presses.

This whole conversation is pointless. Bellamy has refrained from speaking in these meetings so far, but he can’t help himself this time. The words are out of his mouth before he’s had the time to stop himself. “This is ridiculous. Our fight is with the Ice Nation, the Grounders you’re talking about are Trikru.”

The room turns to look at Bellamy.

“Yes,” Hannah agrees, “our fight is with the Ice Nation. Who do you think the other Grounders will side with if they get caught in the middle? Us? Or their own people?”

“We barely understand anything about Grounder politics,” Bellamy counters. He’s already regretting getting into this argument, already wishing he could take back his decision to start speaking in the first place, but he can hear Octavia’s indignation in his head, and he can’t stop. “The Ice Nation have been raiding Trikru lands for generations. As many years as we spent up in space, the Ice Nation and Trikru have been battling for shelter and resources. They are not the same.”

Hannah slowly advances towards Bellamy. “Can you guarantee that? That, when faced with a choice between us - a group of people who literally dropped from the sky - and a Clan they have a shared history and culture with, that not _one_ of them will want to side with the Ice Nation? The Ice Nation and Trikru share a language, share a Commander, share a coalition. They have a lot more in common with Ice Nation than they do with us. What do we have? Only three months ago you were at war. Didn’t you burn two hundred of their warriors alive? And now we’re just supposed to believe they’re our friends because your sister is matched to one of them? How sure are you that they’re our allies? Are you willing to bet the lives of everyone in this camp?”

Hannah now stands right in front of Bellamy, her voice low and deliberate, her argument undeniable.

Any response dies in his throat. He wants to yell, to fight and defend the Grounders in the face of Hannah’s argument, but the truth is: he can’t. He can’t promise that every Grounder of Trikru will stay loyal. Of course he can’t. He thinks of the anger and sadness in his sister’s eyes when she found out what they had done, what _he_ had done. If he’s really honest, he can’t even promise that Lincoln and Octavia will stay loyal.

“You’ve made your point, Hannah.” Pike’s voice is firm, calling her back. “We’ll put extra guards in the medical bay and restrict movement around camp.” Hannah returns to the centre of the room. She looks like she wants to call for stricter measures, but he cuts her off. “We will monitor the situation closely and respond further if need be.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We will also increase our watch around the perimeter and arm all personnel on duty. No one will be getting in or out of this camp without our knowing.” The rest of the room nods, accepting this new proclamation from the Chancellor.

“And now to the biggest order of business. Commander Lexa sent riders this morning requesting a meet to negotiate terms of peace. I sent her riders back with a clear message: no. If we enter into talks now we’ll be forced to grovel, begging for forgiveness and land. I don’t plan on doing any begging.” Pike’s voice grows with intensity and the room suddenly buzzes with it. “We’ll take the land we need to survive and once we have it we’ll have the leverage we need. When Lexa and I do meet, it will be her who will grovel to us in negotiations.”

A cry of agreement fills the room. Bellamy cheers. It’s smart; it makes sense. Pike knows what he’s doing. For the first time since landing here they will be able to negotiate for themselves.   

“And finally, recruitment,” Pike resumes once the room has fallen silent. “We have a big mission ahead of us and we need people we can trust with us on it.”

“My son, Monty, would be honored to join us sir.”

“And we’d be honored to have him, Hannah.”

Hannah visibly expands with pride.

“Anyone else?”

“I can get Nathan Miller up to speed, sir,” Bryan speaks up from the edge of the group. “He’ll help us.”

Bellamy seriously doubts that. He thinks back to his last conversation with Miller, and his friend’s steadfast conviction that Kane’s peace talks were the way forward. Whatever his personal views, Bellamy’s learned his lesson: this time, he keeps his opinions to himself.  

Pike nods at Bryan in acknowledgement. “Good.” He turns back to his desk and picks up a folder, flicking through it. “What about Zoe Monroe and Harper McIntyre, Bellamy?”

“Sir?” Bellamy asks, caught off guard.

“They are two of our top cadets, you trained them, and your assessments of them have all been exemplary. So I assume you think they’re up to the job?”

Bellamy hesitates.

There are no grounds he can think of to object, but he can’t help recalling the image of the Ice Nation camp, bloody and decimated. He knows this mission, while necessary, will be ugly. For a moment he wishes he could spare his friends from it. He wishes that he alone could see the terrible cost of peace. His friends have already suffered so much, and they deserve to be free from it this time. All he's ever wanted is to keep them safe, but that is not for him to decide anymore.

“Absolutely sir.”  

 

* * *

 

**Octavia, March 6th 2150**

 

Octavia frowns at Bellamy as she whips around the final corner towards the storage room where they stashed Clarke. In Bellamy’s features she can see no recognition, no understanding, no dawning realization. Nothing but steely resolve and a cold detachment. In other words, the exact same expression he’s been wearing ever since returning from Polis.

It doesn’t make any sense - he must know that Clarke’s here. Their range spans _miles_ and Clarke is only a few feet away, just behind the door….

She watches his face as she opens the door, revealing Clarke. The open shock is clear on his face. He really had no idea that Clarke was here. Octavia feels vaguely nauseous as she processes this. Their range doesn’t even stretch the length of the _room_. Octavia has no idea what this means or why, but she knows that it’s not good.

An involuntary shiver runs down Octavia’s spine. What happened to her brother’s match?

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy, March 6th 2150**

 

For a moment after Octavia opens the door, revealing the small room inside, Bellamy feels like he’s looking directly into the sun.

He looks away quickly, trying to regain his bearings. The rest of the room is still in black and white, but Clarke – he dares a look over to her once more – she is in screaming colour. Every inch of her is aflame with colours so potent and heady that he can barely breathe when he looks at her. He tries and fails to understand what’s happening.

Ever since the disastrous summit, he’d noticed a change. He’d stopped feeling the constant and painful tug of his distant match. It felt like an absence, a hole of some kind, but it had also been a relief. His anxiety over her had haunted him for months, affecting his decision-making, and ultimately putting others at risk. Untethered from her, he’s been a better leader. His match doesn’t come first anymore: his people do. He hadn’t really been that concerned about what it meant for their match. Seeing her now, their range disappeared so drastically, leaves him lightheaded and confused.

He meets Clarke’s electric blue eyes and he feels the pit of his stomach lurch at the sight of her. Her expression is bewildered, but desperate with relief and longing. Just one look at her and he knows he’s still in danger of being influenced by her. He tears his gaze from her, back to the black ground by her feet, wishing the colour had gone completely.

“Bellamy?” she falters, sounding as confused as he feels. “What, I don't- are you _seeing_ this?”

“What are you doing here, Clarke?” Bellamy keeps his eyes rooted to the ground, refusing to look at her again.

“You can’t just ignore this-”

“If you won’t tell me why you’re here, I’m just going to go.” He means it. In point of fact, he is _desperate_ to be anywhere else, and would welcome the chance to get out of this claustrophobic room.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Clarke pinch the bridge of her nose. “We need to talk.”

“Okay.”

“What happened to the Ice Nation army?”

Bellamy clenches his jaw, still refusing to look at her. “What needed to.”

“Damnit Bellamy,” she snaps, “I had been coming here to tell you that the Ice Nation has paid a price. It’s over.”

The sheer audacity of this compels him to look up at her and stare her down. “And what makes you think you get to be the one to decide it’s over?”

“The Ice Queen is dead, we took care of it-”

A twinge not unlike jealousy shoots through him and he has to question the pronoun. “We?”

“Lexa and I-” Clarke stutters briefly, but when she continues she sounds annoyed. As though this is _his_ fault. “They had agreed to peace with us. Prince Roan - _King_ Roan - is their leader now, and he was on our side! Then you and Pike go and slaughter Roan’s entire army. His people. If we don’t make things right, the coalition will break and we’ll all be at war again.”

Bellamy thinks of the meeting he attended this morning, of Pike’s rousing determination to have leverage before he negotiates with anyone. “Pike’s not negotiating.”

“Please tell me that going to war again is not what you want.”

The naivety in the statement sets his teeth on edge. “We’re already at war Clarke. We’ve been at war since we landed. Maybe you’ve been too busy running away to notice.”

“Bellamy, what is going on here?” She casts her eyes around the room, and Bellamy gets the sense she doesn’t just mean the political situation. “I don’t understand. This isn’t you.” Clarke’s voice has softened and she moves forward across the room towards him.

As she does, colour flares up around the walls of the room. Bellamy instinctively jumps back, away from the burning colour. Clarke sees his discomfort and halts mid-step. She looks at him with such hurt and surprise that for a moment he hates her for it.

“This is me. This is who I’ve always been. I was this person long before I met you and you started twisting my perception. Now I’m finally seeing clearly again.”

“That’s not how it happened,” Clarke replies, visibly upset. “We’ve always seen _better_ together, Bellamy. I need you, and we don’t have much time.”

“You need me.”

“Yes! I need my match!”

“So now you get to just decide when you want colour in your life? You left me! _You_ are the one who decided that this wasn’t important to you.” Pain fills Bellamy’s voice now as he puts words to what’s been torturing him for months. “You left everyone! And even after we risked everything to come and rescue you, you still chose Lexa over your own people. You go and make deals with her and you didn’t even bother to find out whether Arkadia _wants_ to be in the coalition. Lexa betrayed us and left us to die in the Mountain. She forced us to kill everyone in there, people who helped us, people I cared about. How can you continue to trust her?”

“I ju-” Clarke’s eyes are filled with tears as she struggles with a sentence she can’t finish. Bellamy turns away, desperate to collect his thoughts and focus on the cold grey door.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is small and genuine. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

He turns back to face her. Her blonde hair is knotted in dreadlocks around her face, her clothes fashioned out of coarse leather and fur. She looks for all the world like a Grounder. Pike and Hannah will never listen to her. At best, they’ll ignore her or kick her out of camp. At worst, they’ll question her as a spy. He thinks of the added armed guards Pike mentioned this morning. Camp is on edge, and if any of Pike’s guards see her, some unknown Grounder walking around camp, they might just shoot her on sight.

He needs to get her out of here, but he can’t. There’s no place to hide, nowhere he can take her that Pike and his people won’t find.

He moves slowly towards her and as he does the room ignites, finally filling every corner of the cramped space. The effect is blinding, and he can’t help wondering whether he’s again letting colour affect his decision making. Leaving her here, or letting her escape into danger would be the stupidest decision he could make. If Pike discovers that Clarke was here and that Bellamy let her go, that’s it. Pike would never trust him again.

He kneels down and takes Clarke’s hand in his own. Clarke’s eyes, brimming with sadness, look to him and around at the concentrated colour,

“I know we can fix this,” she whispers. “I'm sorry.”

The choice is clear. The best way to keep her safe is to take her into custody. At least then he is in control of where she goes, he can argue her case to Pike. She won’t get caught in the crossfire, and she won’t get captured. It would be far worse for her if she was captured by anyone else.

“I’m sorry too.”

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, March 6th 2150**

 

“Bellamy you don’t need to do this,” Clarke pleads as he drags her down the Ark hall.

“Yes I do.”

“Just let me go!”

“Believe it or not I’m doing this for your own good.”

How could this be for her own good? None of this makes any sense. Bellamy doesn’t make sense. She knew that something had happened after the summit at Polis, but then so much had changed after that summit. She had felt the loss of Bellamy as he walked away from her that day, like a kite without a string, but then she had Lexa to ground her and it all just didn’t seem like such a big deal. She had figured that when she neared Bellamy again she would feel the familiar pull of the colour once more, but there had been nothing. No pull. No colour. Only now as they are next to each other and he yanks her by the arm towards Pike’s office does the Ark obligingly leap into colour around them. It all looks wrong like this, warped and over-exposed and two shades too bright.

Suddenly Octavia is there, taking out the guard in front of them, and as she argues with Bellamy, Clarke sees her chance. Taking his own shock stick off his belt she knocks him to the ground with it. As soon as she backs a step away from his unconscious body the colour falls away. He’s the only thing left in colour on the dull grey floor of the Ark. Before she can fully process her astonishment at all of these turns of events, Octavia is grabbing her hand and leading her back down the hall.

“Follow me Clarke. Come on!”     

Soon they turn a corner to discover her mom and Kane standing by the entrance to the secret passage in and out of camp. She falls instantly into her mother’s arms, taking what little comfort she can.

“Is there anything we can do to prevent retaliation?” Abby asks, gently releasing Clarke.

“We can give them Pike.” Octavia answers fiercely.

“He’s the duly elected Chancellor. These people knew what they were voting for.” Kane’s voice is resigned as he holds the entrance open for Octavia.

Footsteps are approaching. “You two need to go now. You have the radio I gave you?”

Octavia nods at Kane as Clarke looks up at Abby again.

“Come with me,” she pleads.

“I wish I could.” Abby holds Clarke’s face in her hands. “I need to look out for things here.”

“Watch out for Bellamy, I don’t understand what’s going on, but something’s wrong. He’s not himself and Mom we were feet apart and the colour was still gone.”

Clarke can see understanding flash in her mother’s eyes. An alarm sounds throughout the halls.

“Now Abby, they’re coming.” Kane’s voice is insistent and Clarke climbs into the mouth of the tunnel.     

“It will be okay,” Abby says quickly as Kane prepares to close up the entrance behind Clarke. “Matches break, but they can be repaired too.”

Clarke nods a goodbye to show that she has heard her mother as the tunnel is sealed up. She heard the words, but she doesn’t understand. Broken? What does that even mean? A sense of loss washes over her as she starts crawling down the tunnel into the black all around her.  

 

* * *

 

**Marcus, March 6th 2150**

 

As soon as the entrance to the vent is pulled shut, Marcus nudges Abby from her spot; the footsteps echoing down the hallway are nearly here. Forcing themselves to walk slowly and naturally, they make it several feet from the entrance when the guards come charging upon them. Abby and Kane both turn away, flattening themselves against the wall to let them pass. Kane’s heart beats heavy in his chest and faintly he’s sure he can hear the distant clangs of metal as Clarke and Octavia climb their way out of camp. Fortunately, luck is on their side, at least for now. The guards run past them, uninterested in a couple of ex-council members in their hunt for wild Grounders on the loose. Hopefully their luck will last and keep Clarke and Octavia safe until they are both well clear of Arkadia’s guard posts.

As the guards’ footsteps retreat away, Abby grabs Kane’s hand and guides him down a different hall. Instinctively, Kane wants to go to his office, until he remembers of course that he doesn’t have an office anymore.

Instead, Abby pulls him into one of the private medical offices. Alone and in relative safety at last they both allow themselves to breathe. Clarke’s parting words still ring in Kane’s head. Clarke and Bellamy’s match has broken, and with it, their faith in one another.

“Marcus…” Abby swipes a hand across her forehead in a familiar sign of stress.

“I know.”

“How did this happen?” There is an aching behind her eyes that Marcus has no idea how to alleviate.

Kane thinks back, trying to understand what might have driven such a violent wedge between the two young leaders. He comes up empty, turning the events of the past weeks over and over in his mind. There are too many factors at play, too many variables and loose canons and people so driven by anger or fear or loss that he cannot even trust his own people anymore.

“Whatever happened, we can’t fix it. Only they can do that.” Marcus answers, the futility of their situation washing over him. “We can’t do anything. I never should have called an election. I should have fought harder against Pike! The people were scared and he offered them easy and clear security. How could I have let this happen? We’re on the brink of a war we can’t win and all I can do to stop it is send kids into harm's way.”

“Hey.” Abby’s voice is low and reassuring as she moves towards him, “in case you haven’t noticed, they’re not kids anymore.”

“With Clarke gone, Bellamy’s the key. But if their match is broken that explains why I can’t reach him. He doesn’t want to listen to his heart or his emotions anymore, and Pike’s influence is strong. He really believes he’s doing the right thing.”

“Everyone always does.”

Kane meets Abby’s warm brown eyes and he knows she’s remembering the same series of painful memories and choices that haunt Kane everyday from when their own match was broken. He looks away. He’s made so many mistakes.

She softly places her hands on his face and leans in to kiss him lightly on the cheek. He looks back at her. He doesn’t deserve the forgiveness in her eyes.

“What was that for?”

“Hope,” Abby says simply. “Bellamy will come around, and Clarke will figure it out until he does. In the meantime we will watch out for this camp and I doubt we’ll be doing it alone. Pike may have won the votes, but he didn’t win all of the people. You’ll see.”

Kane’s not so sure about Abby’s conviction that they won’t be doing this on their own, but he knows that she’s right about one thing: he won’t stop fighting to protect them. They are still his people, and he will do anything for them.

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, March 6th 2150**

 

Clarke’s horse nudges his nose against her shoulder as they walk, his feet shuffling slow and awkward across the uneven forest floor. She’d retrieved her horse from where she’d left him, tied safely in a position out of sight of Arkadia’s guardposts. Holding his reins slackly in one hand, Clarke tugs him along as she and Octavia pick a path back towards the valley, a mile north of Arkadia.

The air between them is heavy, Octavia’s apparently as stunned by Bellamy’s behaviour as Clarke.

“So, what are you going to do now?” she asks after a few minutes of walking.

Clarke wishes she had a better answer than, “go back to Polis. Maybe I can still smooth things over with the other ambassadors, buy us some goodwill among the Clans…”

She can hear the derision in Octavia’s answering laugh. “You’re going to need a hell of a lot more than _goodwill_ to keep the Azgeda from taking the blood that’s owed to them.”

Clarke whips around, pulling Octavia up short and making her horse snort in indignation. “What am I supposed to do?” she demands. Honest to god, she’s had it up to _here_ with Octavia’s judgement. “What other choice do I have? Arkadia is lost, Octavia! They elected a war mongerer, they renounced our peace talks, and Bellamy-!” Clarke breaks off, not sure how to explain what’s happened to Bellamy, or to her, or to _them_. The word ‘broken’ repeats like a pulse-beat in her chest, but her throat closes around the word.

She takes a breath, tries again. “Lexa has promised the Clans that blood must not have blood. She will not allow the Azgeda to retaliate. The cycle of violence will stop.”

Octavia’s expression is surprisingly sad, almost pitying, when she stares Clarke down. “You might speak the language, Clarke, but you really don’t understand the first things about Grounders.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Octavia huffs a sigh. “Whatever, forget it. I’m sure you’re right.” She starts walking again, pushing past Clarke and swatting at low-hanging branches as she carves a path north-west. “Come on, let’s get you back to your _Heda_.”

The valley is radically changed from when Clarke saw it early this morning. The bodies have been gathered and are burning in a mass pyre, the last plumes of dark smoke trailing high into the air. Clarke wonders whether they used any _blekfaya_ to burn the bodies. If they did, it’s long since dissipated.

As they approach, it becomes clear that Lexa and Roan are locked in a furious standoff. Neither show any signs of violence, but their postures are taut and seem ready to spring - either to attack or defend - at any moment. The tension breaks, only slightly, as they catch sight of Octavia and Clarke arriving over the ridge.

“Clarke.” Lexa says her name like a benediction and Clarke can’t help the tug of pleasure in her gut when she hears it. It distracts her, momentarily, from the memory of the horrible, warped and oversaturated colour that swam in her vision the last time she looked at Bellamy.

“So? What was the conclusion?” Roan growls, bringing Clarke crashing back to reality. “What motive could your people _possibly_ mount in their defense?”

“Roan, stop.” Lexa cooly interjects herself between Roan and Clarke.

“We should have expected it from your kind,” Roan continues over Lexa’s shoulder, spitting at Clarke. “You always take the coward’s way out.”

“Take care, Roan.” Lexa turns to him with a cool eye. “The Azgeda also broke the coalition. They had no business marching so far south.”

“And that justifies their massacre under cover of darkness like COWARDS-”

“Stop.”

“This is not justice, _Heda_! The punishment does not fit the crime. If the _Azplana_ were here-”

“But she is not.” Lexa seems to expand to twice her size, her voice ringing with a gravitas that’s mesmerizing. “Your mother is dead, and if you continue to question my authority in this matter, _you will join her_.”

Even with her small stature, Lexa seems to tower over the much taller Roan. “Do you understand me, _Roan kom Azgeda_?”

Roan is clearly biting hard on the inside of his cheek, Clarke can see his jaw working from several feet away. At length, he nods tightly. “Yes, Commander.”

Clarke is grateful to Lexa for her support of Arkadia, but she doesn’t feel any reassurance at the look of seething resentment in Roan’s dark eyes. Trepidation floods through her as she mounts her horse again and settles back into his saddle. Something tells her that Roan is not a good person to have as an enemy.

Octavia has remained on foot, clearly hanging back as she watched Roan and Lexa engage in their battle of wills. Clarke looks over at her.

Meeting her eye, Octavia gives her a weak, wry smile. “I’ll keep an eye on Arkadia,” she assures Clarke. “Trikru too,” she amends, when she notes Lexa and Roan’s eyes on her. “Even if it means protecting them from each other. I for one am really sick of watching my own people commit massacres.” Octavia’s expression darkens briefly as she catches and holds Lexa’s gaze. “I’m not going to let any more innocent people die in service of whatever bullshit politics are going on in Polis.”

Roan, alone, seems to find this amusing. He cuts her a sharp smile. “Go well, little wildfire.”

Octavia quirks an eyebrow at the odd choice of endearment, “you too, King Roan.”

Roan returns to his horse and swings effortlessly into his saddle, his gaze returning to the pthe last remains of the Azgeda’s best warriors.

Clarke looks back down at Octavia. “May we meet again.”

“I’m sure we will.”

Lexa gives Octavia no parting words. Instead, she returns to her horse in a tense, stony silence, and kicks her animal into motion. Soon, the three of them have set off back on the road towards Polis, leaving Octavia behind, her figure silhouetted against the dying embers of the pyre.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this idea of Clarke and Bellamy's match breaking to explain their actions during this part of the third season (just like Kane and Abby's match was broken at the start of the first season) was one of the initial ideas we came up with when we started writing this fic so we're super excited to be sharing it with you now. The rest of the season will now ultimately be about how they - and everyone else - find their way back to one another.


	13. March 11th 2150: Home Sweet Home

**Murphy, March 11th 2150**

 

This is the weirdest fucking traveling party he’s ever been in. Alie and Jaha march together through the forest like they don’t even see it. Their pace is constant, they don’t seem to tire, they just stride on, barely speaking. Behind them comes Otan, shuffling along in their wake. Sometimes he’ll just stare sightlessly forward, grinning at nothing or speaking to thin air. Other times he’ll turn to Emori and Murphy with an earnest expression on his slack-jawed face and ask them if they would like to go with him to the City of Light. Each time Emori shivers in revulsion and Murphy finds new and increasingly colourful ways to tell Otan to fuck off.

Each time, when Otan seems to come back to himself enough to ask Emori and Murphy to come to the City of Light, Alie gestures him forward, slipping some more of the white powder into his outstretched hand. Sometimes, if she doesn’t act quickly enough, Otan gets agitated or angry, and Murphy can see that hint of world-burning rage in his eyes, the same rage that sparked a nuclear war a hundred years ago. On those times, Alie gives Otan a slightly bigger dose. And so the cycle repeats, every few hours.

Murphy starts to put together a theory. Partly, because he’s going to need to figure out how to detox Otan if he ever wants to run away with Emori. Mostly, because it’s boring as fuck walking through a forest for hours on end, and this is at least kind of distracting.

His theory goes something like this: One, Alie’s drug gives people visions, which apparently make them happy as fuck. Two, once it starts to wear off, they want everyone else to join them in the happy place. Three, the come down hits hard and fast. Could smaller and smaller doses wean someone off it? What exactly is Otan seeing when he mutters to nothing? Can someone be reasoned with when they’re high? He wants to talk it through with Emori, get her thoughts, but she’s become quiet and withdrawn since Otan’s addiction. He doesn’t want to push her and get a knee to the balls for his trouble.   

One thing, though, he can’t resisting vocalizing. “You know what I don’t get about this whole City of Light thing,” he says, making sure he’s speaking loudly enough for Alie and Jaha to hear them from up ahead. He picks his way through the uneven roots and pine needles of the forest floor, but notices as Alie’s head cocks to the side, clearly listening. “How come Jaha up there’s so calm and normal, while Otan’s off in his own little world? Shouldn’t Jaha be talking to shrubs and asking us about cities in the sky?”

“Thelonious has a higher purpose, John,” Alie calls back to him, her voice as strange and calm as ever.

“A higher purpose?” Murphy repeats, lacing his voice with as much disdain as he can manage.

“I will need him in the days to come, to complete our mission of peace.”

“Riiiiiight.”

“Instead of the usual dosage, I have been providing Thelonious with just enough to brighten his vision, but keep his mind his own. Each day, I gift him with a bit more of my medicine and each day he grows stronger. Soon, he will be able to withstand large doses and keep his mind clear.”

“If that’s possible, why are you not doing that for everyone who joins the City of Light?” Emori snaps.

Alie ignores Emori completely. Murphy casts an eye over to Otan, mindless and pliable, and he thinks maybe he knows why she prefers her followers this way.

The conversation drops from Murphy’s mind when he catches a glint of silver through the thinning treeline. Ahead, he can see a familiar valley, and the twinkling of his former home in the sunlight.

“I honestly didn’t think I’d ever be back here,” Murphy mutters to Emori as they emerge from the forest and the huge vestiges of the Ark come into full view.

Emori barely seems to have heard him. Her eyes are locked on the towering Ark, taking it in with awe. “You lived in this?”

Murphy cocks one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Sorta. The bit I used to live in blew up, but, yeah, I guess. Actually, I don't think I ever stepped foot in that bit when it was still in space, but yeah, close enough.”

She's undaunted by his cynicism, her face still bright with an almost childlike wonder. “You really came from space,” she says, still staring at the Ark. I

“Uh, yeah. What, you didn't believe me?”

She tears her eyes from the Ark to shoot him an amused smirk. “I considered the possibility that you might have been crazy. Or deluded in some way.”

He laughs, despite himself. “Yeah, well, you wouldn't have been the first.”

Murphy’s never seen the Ark in colour before, and even he has to admit it's kind of amazing. It dazzles in the afternoon sunlight, reflecting blue and silver light around the clearing, illuminating the rich greens and browns of the surrounding nature. It should feel wrong, this industrial, man-made structure against the otherwise untouched landscape, but it's beautiful. Even if it wasn’t, the elation on Emori’s face is enough to curb Murphy’s general hatred for the place. She's been so subdued since her brother’s addiction, it's a relief to see her excited. Knowing that his presence could help, could lend her support even in a stupid, cosmetic way, fills him with a jolt of warmth.

She reaches for him, her good hand clasping around his elbow. “We’ve been seen,” she mutters from the side of her mouth.

Across the rolling field, Murphy hears it too: the call of human voices, shouting from the guardpost on the wall of camp, and already he feels an almost-overwhelming instinct to turn and run in the opposite direction. The realisation that he’s doing this - bringing himself back to this hell - for Emori’s sake is not actually as terrifying as he thinks it should be. It’s alarmingly simple: Otan refuses to leave Alie, Emori refuses to leave Otan, and Murphy refuses to leave Emori. So until he can find a way to help Emori’s brother kick his newfound habit, he’ll do what he has to, even if it means returning to Camp Jaha.

Not Camp Jaha. _Arkadia,_ he reads off the wide sign arching over the entrance, _much better name._ They’ve been upgrading since Murphy was last here: the walls are lined at the top with barbed wire and broken shards of glass and shrapnel, and if that alone wasn’t enough to deter anyone from trying to climb it, the low hum of an electric threat sure as hell would be.

While Emori and Murphy lag behind - Emori to admire the Ark, Murphy to avoid having to approach camp - Otan, Alie and Jaha have already arrived at the gate. Murphy watches, more than happy to leave them to it, as the towering gate swings open. A pair of guards, dressed in those painfully familiar uniforms, and with high-powered assault rifles in their hands, emerge from the shadow of the gate and level their weapons at the three of them. Actually, Murphy notices, the barrels of their guns aim specifically at Otan. He suspects that if they had noticed Emori, they would be pointing their gun at her too.

Murphy notices with a start that one of the guards is Bellamy.

“Stand down,” Jaha orders, his voice taking on that old ring of a Chancellor.

“You don’t give the orders here anymore,” the guard beside Bellamy retorts. Murphy thinks he might recognize him - maybe it’s just that those stupid uniforms make everyone look the same, but he thinks there’s something else to it. A memory is prickling at the back of his mind like an itch that he can’t scratch.

“We mean you no harm,” Jaha is saying, his hands up like a man at prayer, open and supplicating.

The eyes of the guard have narrowed, his gun raised higher on his taut shoulder, and everything about this screams _bad_ and _run_ and Murphy wants to grab hold of Emori and sprint. Murphy is trying hard to make sense of this, but he’s clearly missed some things while he was locked up in the lighthouse.

“Hey, let’s all calm down…” Murphy speaks before he can stop himself. He takes a couple of small steps forward, edging towards Bellamy.

Bellamy’s attention turns to him, surprise and recognition making him falter, his gun lowering by inches, though his finger remains on the trigger. “We can’t let you in,” he tells Murphy. Everything about Bellamy seems… off. There’s a cold, detached air about him, and a dullness behind his eyes that sends a spike of alarm down Murphy’s spine.

Murphy looks over at Emori. There’s a sharpening in her eyes as she looks from her brother to the gun in the other guard’s hands, back to her brother again. Murphy realizes, with a lurch of unease, that this might be the first time she’s ever faced down a gun, a weapon she’s been taught to fear all her life.

“You shouldn’t have come back here,” Bellamy says to Murphy, his eyes raking over their strange traveling party.

“Yeah, it wouldn’t have been my first choice,” Murphy replies dryly, “but gotta say, I mean I know I was hardly a hero of the people or anything, but isn’t this a bit much-”

From Bellamy’s other side, the other guard shoots him a withering glare. “You,” he indicates to Murphy with the barrel of his gun, “you,” he indicates Jaha, “and you,” to Alie, “can come in and meet with the Chancellor. You two,” he waves his gun between Otan and Emori, “can either wait out here, or we can take you to a holding cell.”

Murphy feels a surge of indignation on behalf of Otan and Emori. Alie is as much of an outsider as either of them, but he knows that the guard took one look at her - her hair smooth and glossy, clothes unnaturally clean, the lines of her porcelain face unblemished by tattoos or markings - and decided that she poses less of a threat than Otan and Emori. The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking stupid.

“Uh, listen, I know I’ve been away a little while,” Murphy tries to speak directly to Bellamy, but he knows the other guard is listening too, “but last I checked weren't you all ‘yay, Grounders, let’s go braid each others’ hair then maybe later we’ll storm a Mountain’?”

“Things change,” Bellamy replies shortly.

“Clearly, but maybe we can just lower the guns-”

“Have you been to the City of Light?” Otan stumbles forward, towards the guard.

 _Oh shit_.

“Would you like to see? I can take you there.”

“Step back, Grounder.”

“Otan-”

“Otan, don’t-”

“I said step _back_!”

“Wait!”

“Gillmer, hold your fire. Gillmer!”

The shot cracks through the air, and for a moment it feels as though all seven of them are in freefall as the dust settles. Otan - poor, idiot, Otan - had been reaching into the folds of his jacket, likely so he could offer the guard some of Alie’s drugs.

The guard had shot him.

A stunned silence hangs over them all, fragile as a soap bubble, which pops as Otan crashes to the ground. Whoever this guard is, he’s good with a gun. The shot, at close range and on target, kills Otan almost as soon as he hits the ground. Emori lets out a scream that curdles Murphy’s blood as she drops to her brother’s side, speaking to him in hushed, rapidfire trigedasleng.

Murphy’s ears are ringing, either from the shot or from shock, as he stares down at Emori and her brother.

Beside him, Bellamy looks as thunderstruck as Murphy feels. He’s blinking rapidly, as if trying to make sense of what just happened. Then, all at once, he turns on his guard mate with a fury that Murphy’s familiar with; it’s the first flare of life that Murphy’s seen from Bellamy and even in the circumstances, it’s weirdly reassuring.

“I told you to _hold your fire_.”

Bellamy lashes out, grabbing a fist of the other guard’s uniform. _Gillmer_ , he’d said. Murphy remembers now: Gillmer used to work in Farm Station, which Murphy could have sworn blew up on it’s way down to Earth, so how did Gillmer end up here? Things change, apparently.

“He was reaching for a weapon!” Gillmer wrenches out of Bellamy’s grip, his face twisted in fear and rage.

“He wasn’t,” Jaha interrupts calmly. “He was trying to show you a better way.” He looks, at worst, mildly put out by the dead body beside him. “Let us speak with Chancellor Griffin, we can explain.”

Bellamy hesitates, looking between Jaha and Alie. He seems to understand, without being told, that when Jaha says _we_ , he means him and the strange, unfamiliar woman standing tall and proud beside him. Eventually, Bellamy nods. “Abby isn’t the Chancellor anymore, but come with me. I’ll take you to Chancellor Pike.”

Alie turns to Bellamy, apparently noticing him for the first time. Her head cocks to the side like some kind of psychotic bird as she stares at him, a plaintive sadness crossing her features. Murphy thinks it’s the closest thing to an emotion that he’s seen from her.

“I am sorry for your loss,” she tells Bellamy eventually. “Do not worry, I can help you. I can fix what was broken.”

Bellamy blinks at her, a frown furrowing between his eyebrows. “Uhh…”

“Look whatever,” Gillmer cuts across, “just follow me and don’t even think about trying anything.” He ushers Alie and Jaha forward with the barrel of his gun.

Bellamy casts a look back at Murphy, then down to Emori. “It’s not safe here.” As if that wasn’t fucking obvious. “You should leave.”

Murphy can’t decide whether Bellamy’s words are a warning or a threat. Either way, Murphy has no intention of hanging around to find out. Whatever’s going on here, he decides in that moment he doesn’t give a shit.

“Fine, those two are your problem now,” he indicates without shame at Jaha and Alie. “Fair warning, they’re fucking nuts.”

Jaha looks as infuriatingly placid as he has ever since Murphy woke up in the City of Light mansion. Whatever that drug does, it seems to impair someone’s ability to recognize a blatant insult. Alie does recognize the slight, but she only gives Murphy the tiniest of sneers in reply. “Until we meet again, John Murphy.”

“You’d better hope not,” he snaps back.

He turns away from all of them. Behind him, he hears Gillmer lead Jaha and Alie inside, followed by the monstrous creaking of the gate door. It closes, leaving Murphy, Emori, and Otan’s body on the other side. They’re hardly alone, though: Murphy can feel the eyes of the guards at the top of the wall, watching him with suspicious glares and trigger-happy fingers.

“Emori.” He kneels down, placing a hand on her trembling shoulder. “I’m sorry about Otan, but we need to go-” He looks up and catches the eye of another armed guard, prowling the top of the wall. “We need to leave now. We can’t stay here.”

Emori nods. Her eyes are overflowing with tears when she looks back up at him, but her expression is resolved. “I know, but I’m not leaving him out here like a dog. Help me take him away. We’ll burn him with _blekfaya_. It is our way.”

Murphy doesn’t know what that means, but he agrees anyway, already pulling Emori to her feet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Alie and Jaha have arrived! Their plot line is one of the main areas where we divert from canon to explore colour-matches in more detail and we're really excited about our version of what's to come. 
> 
> Hope you're enjoying it so far!!


	14. March 12th 2150: The Choices We Make

**Jasper, March 12** **th** **2150**

 

Being sober is so tedious. Okay well he’s not exactly sober, but certainly less drunk. He feels he should get some points for trying. Though maybe that’s not how that works.

Nobody meets his eye as he walks through camp. He knows why, he gets it, but part of him can’t help wishing that even just one person would look at him and not see him for the giant fuck up and waste of space that he is. Maybe today’s the wrong day to attempt to be less drunk. Maybe he’ll try being sober tomorrow instead. He veers in the direction of the mess hall.

The camp is buzzing today from the news of Jaha’s return to camp yesterday, accompanied by some witch who claims to have the “cure for colourblindness”. It all sounds like such utter bullshit to Jasper. He feels almost nostalgic for the days when the talk around camp was just about the fact that the Ice Nation was about to attack and they were all going to die. Simpler times.  

Inside the mess he walks past Raven, sitting at a small table at the edge of the room, out of the way of the main bustle. He stops in his tracks when he sees what’s in front of her. It’s a small bag filled with white powder and sealed with some kind of logo. The same logo he’s seen on that witch of Jaha’s.

“You’re not seriously considering taking that shit are you?”

Raven’s eyes snap up to him. “So what if I am?” Jasper clocks the large bottle of moonshine almost empty on the table in front of her. It’s been awhile since Jasper could consider himself the sober(ish) one in a confrontation, he finds the novelty kind of unsettling.

“Nothing. It’s just that taking a mysterious hallucinogenic from some creepy ass woman who looks like she’s made of plastic, because Jaha says so, doesn’t really seem like your thing.”

“What the fuck do you know about it, Jasper?” Raven’s voice is loud, ringing off the wall of the mess. Heads turn in their direction, and Jasper realizes that he might never be able to go anywhere public again without causing a scene.

“Er- _plenty_ actually,” He shoots back, raising his voice to match hers, “if you think taking that will somehow heal any of the pain you feel about losing Finn.”

Raven aggressively leaps to her feet, “Don’t you talk about Finn!”

There is swift movement around them and Miller, who must have been watching from nearby, gently puts himself in Raven’s way, stopping her advance on Jasper.

“Easy, Raven,” Miller calmly attempts to diffuse the situation.

Jasper, however, refuses to flinch or back down. “Why shouldn’t I talk about him? Someone should. He was my friend and I miss him too. But taking some drug won’t bring him back, which is pretty obvious really, and I’m not sure why I have to explain that to you of all people.”

Raven stops trying to push past Miller and backs away, but her gaze remains fixed on Jasper. “Jaha says that it brings colour back into your life and relieves the pain and strain of seeing in black and white. Don’t you want that, Jasper?”

Raven speaks with such hope, such confidence, that for a moment Jasper almost takes her seriously. “No. Fuck no. I want Maya back, sure, give me a drug that turns back time so I can save her from the Mount Weather genocide and I’ll take that in a second, but I don’t care what the world looks like.” A memory suddenly resurfaces of something Maya once told him and he repeats it, “ _Colour is just the arrow pointing you to the correct person._ Without the person what good would the colour be to me?”  

Raven sighs in frustration, turning away from Miller and Jasper and sits back down. “You don’t understand.”

“Maybe not.” After all, Jasper thinks, Raven found her match in infancy, she’s never really had to live in a world without colour before. Jasper can’t imagine the magnitude of that loss. “But I know that whatever that shit is, whatever it makes you see, it’s not real.”

“And how do you know that without trying it first, Mr. Jordan?” A deep voice behind him speaks.

Jasper turns to see Jaha and the woman right behind him.

“Wha-“ he stutters. How did they sneak up on him like that? It’s altogether too creepy for Jasper’s liking.

“Hello Jasper, I’m Alie.” The hairs on the back of Jasper’s neck stand on end at the sound of her voice, “and I can assure you that my cure does work. Don’t you want to see the world as it was meant to be seen once more?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Jasper replies in a tight voice.

Alie turns her head to focus on Miller, who’s still standing protectively over Raven’s chair. “What about you, Nathan? Wouldn’t you rather have control over when you can see colour and when you cannot?”

The world moves in slow motion for a second as Jasper turns to Miller, processing what has just been said. Miller looks like a statue, pale and frozen in shock.

Raven finds her voice first. “You can see colour?” Miller remains still.

“I thought Bryan said you guys weren’t matched?” Jasper distinctly remembers a conversation around the fire one night.

“Who are you matched with, Miller?” Raven presses, seeming to understand the answer to Jasper’s question even though Miller did nothing to respond to it.

“If you have a match, you can’t just keep it a secret,” Raven’s voice is harsh and accusatory. “They deserve to know!” This snaps Miller out of his shock.

“It’s none of your fucking business Reyes!” He looks at them all in disgust. “Do what you want with your stupid drugs, I’ve got more important shit to deal with.” With that Miller storms off out of the mess.

Raven, adrenaline clearly still pulsing through her, grabs the bag from the table and exits in the opposite direction.

Not wanting to be left alone with the two drug dealing creepsters, Jasper makes his way towards the bar.

One more small drink won’t hurt.

 

* * *

 

**Monroe, March 12th 2150**

 

“This mission is wrong and I won’t do it,” Miller hisses under his breath.

Monroe looks at him from across the small fire. Miller’s features are shadowed and difficult to read, but his eyes keep casting around them, as though he’s expecting to find someone eavesdropping on them.

They stand with Monty and Harper in a tight circle around the minimal warmth of the fire. The new assignment had come from Pike for all four of them a few days ago: in the morning they are to report for duty on this top secret mission. They’re going to ‘forcibly relocate’ one of Trikru’s farms.

“I trust Bellamy,” Monroe says when it looks like no one else is going to interject. “I mean… this is _Bellamy_ we’re talking about! I owe him my life about a dozen times over at this point - we all do. He’s done nothing but prove himself to us time and time again. He wouldn’t be siding with Pike if he didn’t have his reasons.”

“But this?” Harper interrupts from Monroe’s other side. “Zoe, I get what you’re saying, but this mission, this is different.”  

“What would Clarke do?” Monty mutters, as though to himself.

“Not fucking this,” Miller hisses back.

“How do you know?” Monroe counters, finally giving voice to what she’s suspected all along. “How do we know this isn’t all a part of the plan? I mean, Bellamy and Clarke are matched, they’re clearly going to be working together on this. Maybe there’s something else going on here - something we don’t know about.”

“Like what?” Harper asks.

“I don’t know – but she was here right, and then she left with Octavia so something’s going on. Maybe this village, this farmland, actually belongs to the Ice Nation or something.”

Monroe can see enough by the dim fire to tell that her friends are all looking at her with doubtful, condescending expressions.

“Monroe there is no larger plan, the village is no threat, they simply want the land.” Harper’s voice is strained as she lays out the truth.

“They wouldn’t be doing this if they didn’t need to. If it wasn’t absolutely necessary,” Monroe argues back.

“Well it’s not, and they are,” Miller says, desperate and agitated. “Have you guys spoken with Bellamy recently? Something is off with him. I don’t think his match with Clarke is what it used to be and I think it’s affected him.”

“What do you mean _affected him_? How does that work?” Monty asks, voicing Monroe’s curiosity as well.  

“I don’t know, but having a match makes you a better person right?”

Monroe feels herself nodding, though she isn’t really sure what Miller means by that - is she a less good person if she doesn’t have one?

“Well maybe if you are separated from your match for too long it does something to you, you revert to who you were without them…” he trails off, his eyes skipping from Monty, back out to scanning the crowd, back to Monty again. All the while, Monty seems determined to look anywhere _but_ at Miller.

The alluring tug of gossip is a wonderful distraction from the fears plaguing Monroe’s mind. Since when did Miller become the resident expert on matches? She files this away as something to ask Harper about the next time they get drunk. For a moment she misses Sterling like an ache in her chest - he would have enjoyed trying to untangle whatever’s going on there.

“I can’t help but feel like if Clarke were here none of this would be happening,” Harper says, pulling Monroe back to the present. “She would make a new plan.”  

“Unless this _is_ her plan,” Monroe counters.  

“I can’t read Clarke’s mind,” Monty interjects. “Maybe she and Bellamy are working together, maybe they’re not. Either way, she’s not here. But my mom is. I watched my parents save the Ark year after year by growing enough food to feed us all. If my mom says she can do it again, she can keep us alive, then I have to trust her.”

“I don’t want to kill any more people,” Harper says suddenly, her voice tiny and afraid. “I never wanted to kill anyone.”

A low moan of frustration escapes Miller. “I thought we were done with this bullshit,” he grits out, running a hand over his eyes.

When he lowers his hand, Monroe is shocked to see tears brimming in his dark eyes. He blinks and a single tear silently falls down his left cheek, glinting in the dim light of the mess. Instantly, Harper reaches out her hand and rests it on Miller’s shoulder. He grabs a hold of the back of her hand, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turn a stark white against his dark skin.

“So did I,” Harper answers, her voice barely above a whisper. Their eyes speak of horrors that Monroe, for all the fighting she’s done since arriving on Earth, can’t even imagine.  

Sometimes, when she’s a couple of moonshine down and grieving for Stirling, Monroe envies the bond that her friends forged while they were in the Mountain. Other times, like this one, she thanks whatever gods are listening that she escaped their fate.

She doesn’t want to kill anyone anymore either, but if this is what they have to do for survival then this is what they have to do. After all, maybe it will all be fine. Maybe it won’t have to come to violence at all.

 

* * *

**Marcus, March 12th 2150**

 

Yawning, Abby stretches her arms wide over her head. Kane watches quietly as her back arches up from her chair, her joints softly popping.

He winces in sympathy. “Maybe this can wait until tomorrow.”

He looks across Abby’s desk, taking in her hunched shoulders and the dark, nearly purple, bags under her eyes. How long has she had those crows feet in the corner of her eyes? Are there more shots of grey running through her auburn hair now than there had been a few months ago? Worry clenches like a fist around Kane’s heart, and he wishes he could do more to ease the burdens on her shoulders. He can’t bring Clarke home; he can’t fix her daughter’s broken match, or save the lives of the Ice Nation army that Pike butchered. One thing he _can_ do, is make sure that Abby isn’t facing these problems alone.

“No, that’s okay.” She stands and starts to pace in a short circuit around the cramped space. “What were you saying about Jaha?”

She’s clearly trying to shake off her perpetual exhaustion as she moves her stiff limbs and pinches the bridge of her nose. Kane wants to protest, wants to insist they try to sleep for a while, but he knows he’d be wasting his breath. So he sits back against her desk, settling his weight against it and tracking her staccato movements with his eyes.

“I don’t know what he’s up to,” Kane replies, “or what he and this woman _want_ , but the whole camp is taking notice. Whatever he’s selling, they seem to be buying. I’ve seen those little bags of powder all over the place today.”

“I’ll have to confiscate some and run some tests. It could be dangerous.”

“With our luck, it almost certainly is.” Kane’s aiming for humour, but lands far short.

Abby glances at him, her warm brown eyes raking across his frame. He realizes, with a self-conscious lurch, that she’s probably categorizing all the same signs of age, the same nervous ticks and lingering weariness that he’d been noticing in Abby a moment before. He tries to give her a half-hearted smile, but if the deepening crease between her eyebrows is any indication, she remains far from reassured.

“I’ll see what I can find out. These people are riled up enough as it is, the last thing we need is for them to be high on some kind of drug that at _best_ provides some imitation of colour and at worst…”

She trails off. Every time they think they know what the worst-case scenario could be, something even worse happens.

“It’s all we need right now: another wild card to content with.” Kane signs, scratching one hand through his overgrown hair.

In a blink, Abby’s standing in front of him. The palm of her hand cups Kane’s cheek, and he leans against it, accepting these tiny moments of comfort where they can find them.

“We’ll figure this one out too, just like all the others,” she tells him, her thumb tracing a line across his cheekbone.

Kane nods. “I wish I could just outlaw the substance and be done with it.”

Abby gives him a rueful smile. “That’s not how it works, Marcus,” she says gently.

“This is that new, better way?” Kane can’t quite keep the bitterness from his voice. “We let the people decide what they want, even if they choose massacres, madmen, drugs, and self-destruction?”

The brand of the Thirteen Clan is still healing on his arm. Just two weeks ago, he’d truly believed they’d finally reached the end of all their suffering, of all the wasteful, pointless death. He’s heartbroken for his own people, and can’t fight the sour twist of betrayal in his gut when he thinks about everything that’s happened since then.

“Maybe-” Abby begins, but stops short at the sound of a fist gentling tapping on the closed steel door of the Medical Bay.

With a questioning glance at Kane, who shrugs, Abby crosses the room. Pulling back the door, Kane is surprised to see Nathan Miller on the other side. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his guard uniform, he looks… scared.

“Can I come in, Chancellor?” he addresses Abby, but his sharp brown eyes dart to Kane and back as he speaks.

“I’m not the Chancellor anymore, Nathan,” Abby reminds him, but she stands back anyway, letting him in.

“Once the Chancellor, always the Chancellor,” the young Miller mutters. “That’s what my dad always says.”

Abby closes the door behind him as he steps inside. Lips pursed in a hard line, Kane watches as Miller moves around the room, checking every corner of the Medical Bay.

Kane understands the question in his eyes. “There's no one else here, just us.”

“And I can trust you both?”

“I don’t think you’d be here if you didn’t already know the answer to that question.”

Miller takes a deep breath. “Pike’s leading a mission tomorrow, you know?”

Kane and Abby both nod. “A recon of the available farmland.”

Miller shakes his head in a single jerking movement. “No. He’s planning to destroy an innocent village. Wipe them out and take their farmland for Arkadia. He says it’s… a _necessary step to secure our strategic position_.”

The shock of this hits hard. Kane knew Pike was up to something but this seems abominable on a level he didn’t know Pike was capable of.

From the far side of the room, Abby speaks first. “How… how can he justify that?”

“It’s the land. Pike wants to begin farming immediately. If we took unclaimed, untilled land, the Farm Station people say it could take seasons to see any yield. This is a faster solution and, though he’s not saying it, I think he wants to show off to the Grounders, prove to them that we don’t need their treaties to survive.”

Kane’s vision swims, nausea briefly swamping his ability to think clearly. He should have anticipated this. He knew Pike had made bold claims about the amount of food he could provide: how else had Kane imagined he would get it?

“He’s more like the Ice Nation than he’d ever admit,” Abby says quietly.

Miller nods, and Kane thinks he sees relief pass through the boy’s features.

“This is crazy,” Kane manages at last. “Indra is our last real ally in the Clans. If we start attacking her land, her people, destroying Trikru crops…”

“It’s the fastest possible way to drive her from us,” Abby agrees. “She’ll never deal with us again, won’t lift a finger to help us if the Ice Nation come seeking blood.”

“Could we even blame her?” Kane’s frustration bleeds into his voice. Again, he’s forced to watch his own people make reckless, violent choices, with no idea of the consequences.

“Why are you telling us this, son?”

“I know Clarke got in and I know Octavia got out with her.” Miller looks up at Kane, his chin jutting out defiantly, as though daring Kane to contradict him. “I’m willing to bet you know how they did that, and maybe with that information we can do something to stop all of this.”

Kane nods. “I gave Octavia a walki when she left, I’ll radio her. With any luck she can convince the village to evacuate and no one needs to get hurt.”

The tension melts from Miller’s shoulders instantly. “Good. That’s good.”

“And what about you?” Abby asks. “What will you do tomorrow?”

“I’m not going on that mission,” Miller snaps immediately. “I can’t.”

“Pike might not take kindly to that.”

“I don’t care, I can’t take another minute of people talking about him like he’s our saviour. It’s time more people in this camp started pointing out everything that’s wrong with that man. I won’t follow him.”

Miller hesitates, and Kane senses that there’s something else at work here. Not just morality, but a personal investment.

“I don’t get it,” Miller continues eventually. “Everyone just… does what he says. After Bellamy took his side, the others just fell in line. You have to understand,” he glances over at Kane and Abby in turn, “with us - the original Hundred, I mean - we owe Bellamy a lot. He’s saved our asses more times than I can count, and we’ve always been able to trust him, but this is different… the way Bellamy’s been acting lately, it’s like his judgement is all out of whack, like he’s-”

“His match is broken,” Kane explains.

Miller cuts off mid-thought, clearly thrown. He blinks. “What?”

“How much do you understand about matches?” Abby asks, walking back over to sit with Kane on the edge of her desk.

“I know enough,” he bristles, “but I’ve never heard of a broken match.”

“It’s complicated.” Vividly, Kane recalls the sparking, warped colour of a broken match. “Essentially, it means that Clarke’s influence over him is gone. Matches are supposed to be due north, they’re a lifeline of sorts. It’s not just that Clarke’s influence is gone, it’s that he’s rudderless without her. The process of breaking a match can be…” Kane pauses, recalling the feeling of loneliness, of desperation in the wake of his severed connection to Abby. “... isolating. Traumatic, even.” Unconsciously, he reaches across the space between them to rest his palm against the back of Abby’s hand, grounding himself.

Miller shudders. “That sounds horrifying.” He says it with a conviction that makes Kane wonder just how much the boy knows about matches.

Kane nods. “He’s lost, but he won’t see it that way. He still believes he’s truly doing the right thing for his people.”

“Everyone always does,” Abby adds. “At least more often than not: matched, un-matched, widowed, or broken, people believe they are doing the right thing.”

“Can it be fixed, his match?”

“Yes, absolutely, but not by us. Clarke and Bellamy will have to come back to each other in their own time.”

“Okay… well, I’ll keep an eye on him in the meantime. I should get back to my post for now,” Miller says, “but if you need anything, sir, just ask.”

“Thank you Nathan, I will.”

Miller moves to the door, but before he reaches it Kane speaks again. “You’re so much like your father, you know.”

“I’m not sure about that, sir, but I’d like to think so.”

“You are,” Kane assures him. “Dave pledged his support to me in secret two days ago.”

A true smile spreads across Nathan Miller’s face as he disappears out the door.

 


	15. March 13th 2150: Changes to the Plan

**Bellamy, March 13th 2150**

 

It’s easier to just not think about what this day will have in store.

Privately, Bellamy has argued with Pike that this is a mistake. He knows they need land in order to farm, but there’s plenty of other land surrounding the village. This village itself is not a threat. He argued that just because Lexa hadn’t retaliated for their attack on the Ice Nation, doesn’t mean that she wouldn’t attack immediately once they were seen to be taking Trikru villages. But of course that’s exactly what Pike expects. He doesn’t fear Lexa’s retaliation, and he refuses to do anything by half measures. Not when the future starvation of their people is on the line. To hear Pike tell it, the choice is simple: remove this village, or starve.

In his mind Bellamy keeps seeing the village that Finn gunned down, and his stomach up turns at the very thought. He has already vomited several times this morning.

He tells himself, as he stands by the rover, watching through a small window in the garage as the early morning sun creeps over the horizon, that it won’t be like that. They aren’t gunning anyone down, they’re simply going to relocate the Grounders who lived there. Nobody needs to die today. He wonders how many more times he’ll need to tell himself that before he believes it.

As he waits for the rest of the team to report in, he hears a crash behind him. He turns to see Raven walking serenely out of Engineering. There is something profoundly odd and unsettling about the way she sort of glides towards him.

“Raven? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she responds peacefully. “Of course I am. How are you?”

The degree to which this behaviour is bizarre, especially coming from Raven, is scary. As she nears him, he can see that her pupils are blown wide, her expression completely glazed over.

“I’ve seen him, Bellamy, and the world is as it should be.” Bellamy has no idea how to respond to this, but Raven doesn’t appear to need a response. She continues walking past him without stopping.

Bellamy wants to follow her. Whatever’s going on with her, it’s not good, but just then a door at the other end of the hanger opens and the team begin to assemble. It doesn’t take Bellamy long to realize who’s missing: Miller and Harper. Bellamy knows them well enough to know that they’re not just running late.

As everyone starts to load into the rover, Pike corners Bellamy. “Where are McIntyre and Miller?”

Bellamy makes eye contact with Monroe and she gives the tiniest shake of her head. They’re deserting the mission. He wonders what Pike’s punishment for that would be. At the very least they’d be labeled as traitors. He thinks fast.

“I had to reassign them, sir.”  

“And what made you do that?” Pike demands, his voice powerful and dangerous.

“Had to sir, it was a matter of camp security. They were here with me first thing sir, and we saw Reyes in a bad way. I think she’s high on something, a danger to both herself and others in the camp, sir.”

“Why didn’t you radio for backup, why take soldiers away from a mission they were needed on?”  

“Reyes is volatile sir, there are very few who she would listen to, especially in her current condition. Miller and McIntyre were the only ones I saw fit for the job.” Bellamy tries not to hold his breath as he waits for Pike to process this.

“Alright,” Pike finally nods, “But next time report it right away Blake. I don’t like changes to the plan on the day of a mission. ”

“Yes sir.”

He avoids Monroe’s eyes as he gets into the rover, though he can feel her watching him. They’re not out of the woods yet, he’ll have to give Harper and Miller the heads up about what he’s said before they say or do anything stupid. He also really does wish he had been able to send someone to watch over Raven.

But as the engine starts up his thoughts are primarily with his friends here in the rover. He wishes he’d been able to come up with excuses for them all.  

 

* * *

 

 

 **Octavia,** **March 13th 2150**

 

“Get off me, you _joken_ -”

“Hold your tongue, Skaikru scum.”

“I was trying to help you, ungrateful fucking-”

The back of the Grounder’s hand cracks against the side of Octavia’s face, silencing her. Slightly dazed, she has no choice but to follow as Semet hauls her from her position at the back of his saddle and half-drags her forward. She’s so angry at the injustice of her situation that she barely pauses to note the huge gate of Polis as they pass through, or incredible sight of Polis Tower as they mount the wide ancient steps at the front of the Tower and march through the open doors. This far from Arkadia she’s almost completely out of range, but she can just make out a subtle tinge of colour around the edges of the furs and fabrics adorning the grand foyer of Polis.

She can still picture the Grounder farm, the trap laid for her brother and his people, the bitter burn of the poisonous sap in the air. She feels sick. All she wanted to do was save lives and she might have just gotten more people killed.

“Hold there!” Indra’s blessedly familiar voice commands, her words echoing across the high-ceilinged foyer. “What is the meaning of this?”

Encumbered by her bound wrists, Octavia twists around to face Indra. “Indra! I can explain, if someone would just stop and fucking _listen_ to me-” Instinctively, she hauls again against her captor’s hold on her wrists.

Again Semet raises his fist to silence her, but at Indra’s look of deadly reproach, he drops his hand.

“I am listening, Octavia _kom Skaikru_. Speak.”

Quickly, Octavia rattles off the story of the past few days. Of the election in Arkadia, of her escape with Clarke, of her contact with Kane and their learning of the plan to attack a Trikru farm, and then of her attempts to warn them. Finally, of her subsequent arrest by the hands of the people she was trying to help.

“She is living proof, Indra, of the Skaikru’s duplicity-” Semet tries to tell his leader.

Indra nods thoughtfully. “Also living proof that not all of them are bent on war. Release her.”

Octavia could kiss Indra, she’s so damn grateful as her wrists are finally released from their rope ties.

“What became of the village?” Indra asks, her eyes hard with fierce concern.

“I don’t know-” Octavia begins.

“We set traps for the Skaikru,” Semet speaks over her. “Poison gas from the hissing trees.”

Octavia remembers the burn of the tree sap on her arm and feels a spike of fear for Bellamy.

Indra absorbs this without emotion. “How many dead?”

“Uncertain, I left the others to care for the farm while I rode with the prisoner to report the news of their attack and demand justice.”

“You have done both,” she tells Semet cooly. “Go home now and send me word of the damages to your land.”

“What of the blood we are owed-”

“You have not heard, Semet?” Indra raises an eyebrow at him with a look of bitter amusement. “There is a new order. _Jus nou drein jus daun._ There will be no blood.”

“But Indra-!”

“You heard me, Semet. Go now. I will escort Octavia to an audience with the Commander.”

Stuck, Semet gives Indra a short bow, then - with a final look of loathing for Octavia - he departs the way he’d come.

“Thank you,” Octavia says, taking in Indra’s stern posture.

“There is nothing to thank me for.” Indra looks at Octavia. “If I were free to demand justice for this act, I would do so.”

Octavia nods her understanding. She wants to protect her people, but she cannot say she blames Indra. For the past months Indra has been the closest ally Arkadia had among the Grounders, Pike’s attack on her people is nothing short of a betrayal.

“Arkadia is being led by idiots,” Octavia replies. “We will fix this. When Kane retakes his position as Chancellor-”

“If he can,” Indra interrupts. “Leadership, once lost, is difficult to regain. Come, follow me. The Commander will want to meet with you.”

Minutes pass as Indra leads Octavia into a stairwell and they begin to ascend the Tower in silence, the only sounds are their boots echoing through the drafty space.

“Indra-” Octavia starts as they pass the 10th floor.

“Not yet,” Indra says over her. “Anything you say you’ll need to say again when we meet with the Commander, you may as well save your breath.”

“What’s going on here?” Octavia can’t help bursting out. Indra stops midway up the stairs and turns to look down at Octavia, some steps below.

“What’s going on?” she echoes. The venom in her voice reminds Octavia forcefully of the last time they were alone together, when Indra had stripped her of her position among the Trikru. “What’s going on is that Lexa, in an increasingly misguided effort to protect _your_ people, is forcing you into the coalition, apparently whether you like it or not. The Skaikru do not want to be in the coalition, and the twelve Clans _certainly_ do not want you in it. And yet here we are. Kane bears a brand on his arm but no power to yield it, and meanwhile the Skaikru is murdering their way through the eastern Clans.”

Well fuck if Octavia doesn’t really have an answer to that. “We’ll fix this,” she repeats.

Indra raises an eyebrow at her. “As I said, you can save it for the Commander.”

Silence reigns again as they continue their climb, up and up and up. At some point, Octavia’s ears pop with the change of pressure, but they carry on past a dozen more floors. Octavia’s lost track of the floor number by the time Indra finally slows her pace and comes to stop at a landing, her hand on a rusted crashbar, preparing to open the door.

“You’re about to enter the throne room during an assembly of the Clan ambassadors,” Indra tells her. The tone of a teacher training her Second is back in Indra’s voice, and Octavia feels an odd jolt of nostalgia. “This is the seat of power, in the heart of our capital city, so please at least _try_ to keep your attitude in check.”

“ _My_ attitude-” Octavia starts to protest, even as Indra rolls her eyes and pushes through the ancient metal door. The screeching of the door on its hinges drowns out Octavia’s complaint.

With a gentle shove, Indra pushes her into the throne room. That last time she’d been here - sneaking in, armed, and crashing their ceremony - Octavia hadn’t really had the time to take in the view. It’s not quite what she’d expected for a grand throne room. It’s a quarter of the size of the huge foyer she came through, low-ceilinged, poorly lit, and cramped. It feels more like a council chamber that’s been appropriated into something grander. A dozen Grounders are standing in clusters along each side of the room, talking in small groups in varying degrees of agitated. At a glance Octavia suspects these must be the Clan ambassadors. At the head of the room, by a wide gaping window and atop a small set of short steps, sits Lexa in a giant throne of twisted branches. Okay that, at least, is sort of impressive, but Octavia can’t help recoiling at the sight of the Commander. Whatever Clarke might say, Lexa was happy to bomb her own people in Tondc, was happy to let Bellamy and the others die in Mount Weather, and has so far done nothing to suggest to Octavia that she’s remotely trustworthy. Clarke clearly has no such hesitations. There, right at the bottom of the steps, she stands, speaking quietly with the man Octavia saw back at the killing field - Roan, she thinks his name is. Clarke looks up and locks eyes with Octavia, her mouth falling open in a small sign of shock.

As Octavia stumbles forward, she immediately catches the attention of every single person in the room. All conversation stops abruptly as they take in Octavia, and Indra escorting her through the room. Murmurs start up around them like a swarm of insects, hissing and malevolent.

“Octavia?” Clarke is the first to speak, her voice layered with concern.

“Well, if it isn’t the little wildfire,” Roan gives her a smirk. “How fared your mission to save the Skaikru from themselves?”

The satisfaction in his tone, the certainty that he already knows why she’s here, is as irritating as it is accurate. Something of her ire must show on her face, as Roan’s wolfish smile only widens.

“Indra,” Lexa speaks, her voice booming through the room and quieting all other voices. “Explain this.”

“Octavia _kom Skaikru_ has a story to tell,” Indra replies. She steps back, leaving Octavia to stand alone in the centre of the room, all attention focused on her.

Gathering her strength, she repeats the same story she told to Indra, cutting as much detail as she can. She keeps Bellamy’s name firmly out of it, she highlights instead Kane’s resistance and the people working within Arkadia to bring Pike down. She neglects to mention the growing tension and anti-Grounder sentiment that’s taken a hold of the camp.

The assembly listens to her story in more or less silence - interjecting occasionally to heckle her, or shout an obscenity into the air. When she arrives at the part where Semet bound her and brought her to Polis to give evidence, Indra jumps in.

“I encountered them both in the main hall on my way up to the ambassador’s assembly,” Indra explains. “I have dispatched Semet back to assess the damage to his village and report back on any loss of life or crop.”

“How will this outrage be answered, _Heda_?” One of the ambassadors calls from the back of the room.

“We must march on the Skaikru!”

“This cannot stand!”

“We were promised peace when we joined the Coalition!”

“What’s to stop them invading our Clans next?”

The shouts only get louder as the ambassadors call on Lexa for action. Octavia takes in their building resentment with a nervous eye. Across the hall, she can see the same fear reflected in Clarke’s expression.

Abruptly, Lexa stands from her throne and walks to the edge of the top step. Even Octavia can see the cracks in her armour, the tension in her clasped hands, the quiver in her cheek. The crowd quiets by degrees, but doesn’t fall entirely silent, as they look to her for a decree.

When she speaks, her voice is measured and sure. “The Coalition thanks you, Octavia _kom Skaikru_ for your report. The concerns of the ambassadors are also noted. I will take their words under advisement in considering a course of action. For the time being, the assembly is dismissed.”

The uproar at this is twice the noise of before. Shouts come from all sides as they demand vengeance, or justice, or retribution. Only Clarke, Octavia, Indra, and Roan remain silent, all of them watching on with stony expressions.

“You heard me,” Lexa repeats, when no one has moved. “You are all dismissed.”

Roan stalks from his position beside Clarke, over to a small group on the other side of the room. He places an arm around their shoulders, speaking to them in a low voice. Eventually they nod, and move off towards the exit. He does the same again for another cluster of ambassadors, and other, until eventually they are all pushing their way towards the exit.

At the last, one of the ambassadors turns back around, loathing plain on her face. “If the spirit of the Commander will not protect us, then what will?” She spits in Lexa’s direction. Immediately, Roan is at the ambassador’s side, speaking to her in a low, placating voice and ushering her with a gentle firmness to the end of the hall and out the door.

With one final look back to Lexa, still standing by her throne, Roan gives her a sharp nod and follows the other ambassadors out of the room, closing the door behind him. The whole clearing of the room took only a few minutes, and leaves Octavia wondering why Roan - the King of a nation decimated by the Sky People - would suddenly be so keen to do Lexa’s bidding.

A tense, uncomfortable silence falls over the remaining occupants of the room: Octavia, Clarke, Lexa, Indra, and a pair of the Commander’s guards, posted at the doors. Lexa lets out a huff of a sigh and collapses back down into her throne, rubbing at her temples.

“After everything I have done to try and help the Skaikru-”

 _What have you ever done to try and help the Skaikru?_ Octavia bites down on the retort.

“I’m so sorry, Lexa,” Clarke says softly, mounting the steps to stand by Lexa’s side. She places a hand on Lexa’s, where it had been resting on the armrest of the throne. In response, Lexa’s hand twists under Clarke’s and grips her in return, her fingers wrapping around the back of Clarke’s hand.

Well. That would explain a lot.

“What you need is time,” Lexa says after a moment. “I will need to impose a barricade. I could mobilize the armies of the twelve Clans, to act as a defensive barrier against Arkadia, until you can depose Pike and reinstate Kane as leader.”

“A barricade?” Octavia echoes faintly. “Because the last time someone left an army on Arkadia’s doorstep it worked out so well?”

“Octavia!” Clarke snaps.

“A barricade will not work, _Heda_.” Indra cuts in before Octavia has a chance to argue further. She walks past Octavia, and approaches Lexa’s throne. Her voice is hard with dissention. “What you are proposing, it would amount to appropriating all twelve of the Clan’s armies - or eleven, with Azgeda out of commission - with the purpose of building a glorified human wall. The cost alone, of assembling and feeding-”

“Well, Indra, what would you suggest?” Lexa snaps.

Indra stares at her for a moment. From her vantage point, Octavia can see the furious working of Indra’s jaw, a clear sign of agitation. It’s the first time Octavia’s ever seen Indra with anything less than absolute control. “Any of my suggestions would already come too late, _Heda_. I would have suggested you obtain the consent of all twelve Clans before attempting to induct a thirteenth into an already fragile coalition. I would have suggested that you destroy the Mountain once and for all before any Clan - Azgeda, Trikru, or Skaikru - could have attempted to colonize it or claim their weaponry. I would have suggested that re-writing our blood-dept laws, at a time when the Clans have already sacrificed much in joining your coalition, would be a dangerous act-”

“ _Our_ coalition, Indra,” Lexa responds, her voice sharp as a razor.

“ _Heda_?” Indra blinks.

“It is not _my_ coalition, it is _ours_.” Lexa repeats. “You have been with me from the beginning. It has always been a shared dream for peace, never mine alone.”

“Of course, Commander.”

“Your comments have done nothing to address the situation at hand.”

“The Azgeda will never accept Skaikru into the coalition now,” Indra replies. “Roan is willing to entertain conversations, while he awaits your decision, but Arkadia have done nothing to merit cooperation.” Indra’s eyes rake over Octavia briefly. “I would struggle to convince even my own people, given recent events.”

“Would you try to convince them if I demanded it?”

“Of course, _Heda_ ,” Indra replies without hesitation, “if you demanded it. You are the Commander, her spirit flows in your veins. I will follow you.”

“Very well. You’re dismissed too, I’ll reconvene the ambassadors when I have made a decision.”

Indra hesitates briefly before bowing, low and obedient. “Yes, _Heda_.”

She leaves without a backwards glance, her eyes barely glancing over Octavia as she marches from the room.

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, March 13th 2150**

 

“Clarke!” Octavia shouts for her as they leave the throne room.

Clarke turns around and greets her with a tense smile. “Hi, Octavia.”

“Where are we exactly?” Octavia asks, looking around at the narrow hallway.

Clarke smiles. “Here, follow me.”

She leads Octavia to her room in the Tower, letting her inside before closing the door behind them.

“Wow,” Octavia nods approvingly as she takes in the wide window and feather bed. “I can see why you’ve been away so long.”

The accusation in Octavia’s tone makes Clarke flinch. “It’s important for me to be here, Octavia.”

“Maybe before,” Octavia shrugs, “but come on, what’re you still doing here? We need to go.”

“Go back to Arkadia, you mean?” Clarke blinks, confused.

Octavia’s gaze is intense as she stares Clarke down. “Obviously. Didn’t you hear a word I said to Lexa just now? Bellamy could be hurt, Arkadia’s falling apart… Clarke, we need your help.”

Clarke has a rushing memory of Bellamy standing before her, begging her in almost the exact same way only a few weeks ago.

Her answer hasn’t changed. “I can’t, Octavia, not yet.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because someone needs to be here. We can’t just give up on-”

“On what?” Octavia snaps. “On Lexa?”

“Yes! On her dream of peace.”

Octavia throws her hands up in frustration. “Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds? Clarke, _there is no peace_. There never will be if we can’t depose Pike and help heal all the wounds in Arkadia first. These are your people we’re talking about.”

“I know. I know it’s bad, and I’m trying to do what’s best for them.”

“By abandoning them? Abandoning _us?_ ”

“I’m _not_ abandoning you.” Shame and anger burn across Clarke’s cheeks. “I’m not wanted there Octavia. Bellamy made it perfectly clear-”

“So fucking what?” Octavia shoots back, her voice rising. “I’m not wanted there either, you think that’s going to stop me?”

“Just - wait.” Clarke gestures towards Octavia placatingly. “At least wait until Lexa has made her decision. If we can come back to Arkadia with a plan-”

“What like the _barricade_?” Octavia laces the word with excessive sarcasm. “Clarke you know as well as I do how badly that would go down.”

“Something else then,” Clarke snaps, at the end of her patience. “Just give me a couple of days! If we work _with_ Lexa and the ambassadors, instead of trying to antagonize them, maybe we can come up with a real solution.”

Octavia folds her arms over her chest, obstinate and angry. “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe. But I’m only asking you for two days. Give me _two days_ to find a way to fix this with the Grounders.”

“Then you’ll come back?”

Clarke’s stomach clenches at the lie. “Then I’ll come back.”

 

* * *

 

**Harper, March 13th 2150**

 

As soon as she hears the rover approaching the gates, she’s outside and in the yard.

All day she’s been plagued by the feeling that something horrible is happening. Or about to happen. She’s not sure.

She knows that she will be reprimanded for deserting the mission. Maybe she should be hiding from Pike right now, not out in the open ready to meet him as soon as he returns, but something is telling her that she needs to be here. Needs to see that her friends are safe. She’ll take whatever punishment she has coming her way. In her mind it’s a fair trade for not having been on that mission. She knows Miller also didn’t show up this morning, he, however, doesn’t seem to be waiting so eagerly for his punishment.

As the rover pulls up and the doors open, immediately she can tell that something is wrong. There is a pall hanging over everyone.

Bellamy walks over to her before she’s even had a chance to get a good look at everyone else. His face is grim and set and her first thought is of her punishment.

“Bellamy I-” she starts to explain but Bellamy quickly silences her with a hug. Something he’s certainly never done before. Bewildered, she hugs him back. He smells of sweat and smoke and something sharp that stings her nose.

His voice whispers against her ear, “You and Miller were reassigned to take care of Raven this morning. I reassigned you. Do you understand?” He pulls away to look her in the eye.

Harper nods. She’s not sure that she _does_ understand, but she knows enough to keep her mouth shut right now. A sense of relief starts to wash over her; no punishment after all.

But there is still something wrong. She can see it in Bellamy’s eyes.

“What happened out there?”

He never gets a chance to answer. Over his shoulder Harper sees a body bag being loaded out of the rover.

Her blood goes cold.

 

* * *

 

**Nathan, March 13th 2150**

 

Miller stares into the orange flame, blinking furiously. He sits on the far edge of camp with a small fire in front of him for warmth, gripping a bottle of pilfered moonshine like a lifeline. He couldn’t stay in there. He can’t bear to look at any of them: Bryan, Monty, Bellamy, they were all there. The people who let her die.

He feels betrayed and more alone than he has in a very long time. His boyfriend, his match, his best friend, these were the people he should be able to trust, but they all chose wrong. Miller seems to be the only one of them who can see it, and now he has no choice but to side against them.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Miller tenses, but breathes again when he sees Harper come around the corner. She didn’t show up for duty this morning either. For that, she’s about the only person in this camp he can stand right now.

She nods at him in greeting and sits down by his side.

“Bellamy says that he re-assigned us to look after Raven early this morning. That’s what he told Pike, anyway.”

Of all the things he thought she might say, that was not one of them. Miller takes this in.

“He spared us from Pike?”

“I guess.”

“What’s up with Reyes?”

“No idea,” Harper replies hollowly. She steals the bottle of moonshine from Miller’s hand and takes a swig. “Also you were right.”

“Which time?” Miller asks humorlessly.

“What you said last night. About something being off with Bellamy.”

Miller watches the bottle as Harper hands it back to him. “Kane says his match is broken.”

“What does that mean?”

“Not sure exactly. I guess it means any influence Clarke might have had on him is gone, or reversed, or something. He sees everything in black and white now.”

“So what?” Harper snaps. “That’s bullshit and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of people saying that a match makes them _good_ , that they couldn’t possibly be good without it. I see black and white all the time and yet somehow I’ve managed not to commit multiple mass genocides.”

There is nothing Miller can say to this. She’s right of course. Colour and matches can never be an excuse. Not for this. Not for anything.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I know. But hey, he lied to Pike for us, right? That’s got to mean something.”

A small spark flashes in Harper’s eye. “He’s still Bellamy. Whatever else, he’ll always have our backs.”

“Looks like it.” It’s small, but it’s something. Maybe there’s still hope.

A beat passes between them. “She was wrong, you know?” Harper doesn’t say, but Miller knows immediately who _she_ is. “This isn’t some grand plan. This isn’t Bellamy and Clarke working together with some kind of secret agenda. This is just as fucked up as the Mountain Men. Worse, maybe. At least their mass murders had a purpose.”

Miller nods, raising the bottle in his hand, “To Zoe Monroe. She died believing the best in the people she loved.” He takes a large swig from the bottle and hands it over to Harper.

“To Zoe Monroe,” Harper echoes, raising the bottle again. “She deserved a better world than the fucked up one she got.”

“May we meet again, Zo,” Miller replies, taking the bottle back and pouring a shot out on the grass for her.

“Everything about this is fucked up,” Harper repeats quietly.

“It is.”

“Good.” Harper looks up at him. “So I want in.”

Miller meets her eye. He won’t do her the discredit of acting dumb or making her ask a second time. If he and Kane are going to be able to do anything to fix this mess, they need help.

He nods.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Monroe. We hate to see you go. But her death will be honoured in our story, it will have huge ramifications and be felt by everyone as it becomes a catalyst for what is to come. 
> 
> Some big exciting chapters coming up!!!


	16. March  14th 2150: In the Name of Protection

**Echo, March 14th 2150**

 

Polis is quiet, glinting in the grey moonlight. Echo pulls her hood down over her face as she sees the others approach. They arrive like a dark shadow, six figures moving silently through the streets, all of them hooded  against the prying eyes of the night. As they pass, Echo falls in among their number, walking alongside her companions. The man at the head of their party looks back at her. From among the shadows of his hood, Echo can still make out the silhouette of Roan’s face. He gives her a speaking glance before turning back to lead them onwards through the dark city streets.

The new Azgeda King has returned a different man, after witnessing the murder of their army. She still can’t quite believe what he told her. The entire army slaughtered in the dead of night, denied even a good and noble death in battle. It makes her sick with rage and sorrow. The one consolation Echo can take is that it brought Roan to their cause. He betrayed and killed the Queen in siding with Lexa. But now, Echo thinks, he might finally be ready to become the leader his mother always knew he could be.

They travel in perfect silence, skirting the main squares - none of them are keen to encounter any all-night revelers. Instead they stick to the sleepy side streets of the outer city, taking a long and circuitous route to their destination. Eventually they arrive at a small hut and slip inside without making a sound.

Indra sits writing by the light of a small torch. She stands as they enter.

Roan steps forward, removing his hood. “Forgive the intrusion Indra, I know it’s late.” He bows respectfully to the Trikru leader in greeting.  

“I was awake,” Indra replies smoothly. She casts a sharp eye across the six of them as they fan out, filing against the edge of the hut. “Do I know your hooded friends, here?”

“You know them by name,” Roan replies, “Now you may meet them as allies.” He indicates to his immediate left. “This is Decius _kom Ingranrona_.” The surly and imposing Plains Rider removes his hood as he is introduced.

“Cinna _kom Trishana_.” Cinna extends a delicate hand towards Indra in greeting, her electric-white hair tumbling across her shoulders as she pulls back her hood. Echo can’t help staring: it is not often that the Glowing Forest Princess comes to Polis.    

“Metellus and Cimber _kom Ouskejon Kru._ ” the Blue Cliff Clan twins nod in unison, identical glints in both of their eyes. The two men would be indistinguishable, but for the size and shape of the patterned tattoos snaking down their necks.

“Echo _kom Azgeda_.” Echo removes her own hood at the mention of her name. She has heard of Indra, the great Trikru warrior who trained with the current Commander since before her ascension. She is as loyal as they come, but if their plan is to succeed, they need the Trikru with them. In order to get the Trikru, they need Indra.

“And this is Tolk _kom Podakru_ ,” Roan finishes, gesturing to the last of their party. The young Lake People Prince grins broadly at the room as if this were the start of a party.

“You are welcome, all.” Indra greets them coolly. She is wary, but not hostile, which feels promising.

“You know why we are here.” It’s not a question.

“The Commander.” Indra replies without hesitation.

“She has grown too powerful. It was never meant to be this way. The Commander was always to be a spiritual position, uniting us, but answerable to the leaders of each Clan. We need the ability to govern our own people for ourselves. How can one leader, sitting comfortably in Polis, possibly understand what those riders in the furthest reaches of Western Plains require? She cannot. More dangerous still than her not being able to appreciate the needs of our individual clans, is her making decisions that affect everyone, with no consultation to any of us. She gave our land to the Skaikru. Then, when they attack us, we are ordered to do nothing. We let her power grow with her coalition of the twelve Clans, placing herself as ultimate ruler. We were fools not to anticipate the danger this would create.”

Indra is listening. It’s clear the Commander’s inaction following news of the attack on the Trikru village has shaken Indra’s trust.

“What is your solution?” she asks at last, her voice measured, giving nothing away.  

“I am not advocating war.” Roan looks around to the others for their support, “None of us are. We all want peace, but we want peace on our own terms, like we always had it before.”

“You would call what we had before peace?” Indra levels him with a look. “I recall it differently.”

Roan winces, but doesn’t back down. “In the days before, all clans would travel at will, to trade or, if occasion arose, to take what we need. Trade or fight, that is our way. Disputes were handled with honour, through honest, open combat, not in the dead of night against the sleeping or weaponless. Blood does not have blood when the fight is entered willingly. _That_ was peace. Ever since the Commander proposed unifying the Clans, we have known terrible, sweeping loss the likes of which we have never known - this is no peace I recognize. Surely you must agree Indra, for none have suffered worse than the Trikru.”

“We have suffered at many hands. The Mountain Men, the Sky People, _your_ people, King Roan. Was the Commander responsible for those as well?”

“The Commander was responsible, yes. If she insists on being our _Heda_ , she is responsible for all lives lost in the Twelve Clans. What has she done, Indra _kom Trikru_ , to avenge the loss of the two-hundred warriors who died in the battle against the Sky People? How much blood did she give you for the destruction of Tondc, or the attack on your farmlands just _yesterday_? Why is she refusing to let you take the blood that is owed to your Clan?”

Roan pauses, letting his words sink in. “No Clan has prospered from this failed experiment.”

“You have spoken with the Twelve Clans already?”

Roan nods. “The ambassadors have sworn on oath that they will support a peaceful transition back to self rule.”  

Something in Indra’s expression shifts when she hears this. She uncrosses her arms from over her chest, and Echo sees the ghost of a smile edging at the corners of Roan’s lips. They nearly have her.

“I know you have seen it too, Indra. Even you were questioning the Commander’s decisions after the assembly-”

“Your ears must be strong indeed to hear conversations held through closed doors,” Indra snaps.

Quite aside from looking chastised, Roan’s grin is satisfied and predatory. “The Commander’s guards are not as loyal as she has allowed herself to believe.”

“Indeed,” Indra draws out the word, dry and hard. “Well, you have her ambassadors, you have her guards, you have your band of assassins. It seems you have thought of everything.”

Roan says nothing to this. He waits. They all wait, watching Indra as she sizes them up.

“If this happens,” Indra continues after a moment, “what will become of the Commander’s spirit? You would see the destruction of our holy leader?”

“No,” Roan assures her. “The next Commander will be chosen and ascend in the correct way. And we will continue to honor and pay homage to the pure spirit of the Commander, as we have always done.”

For the length of an agonizing heartbeat, Indra does not move, and it feels to Echo as though they are all holding their breath as one, awaiting her decision. Finally, as though in slow motion, Indra extends her hand to Roan. They shake, and an excited pulse reverberates through the room. The agreement has been made. Now they can get to work.

They move in close together as Roan begins to outline the plan.

“Shall no one else fall, but only Lexa?” Decius urges, his voice low and rough.

“What about _Wanheda_? So well-loved by the Commander,” Metellus suggests, “surely she will continue to fight if we let her survive.”   

“Our cause will seem too bloody,” Roan says firmly. “Only Lexa.”

“It is a mistake to leave Clarke alive,” Cimber picks up his brother’s argument. “She has a violent spirit, she will seek vengeance.”

“You know nothing about it,” Indra snaps, silencing the Blue Cliff warrior. “Vengeance is not in her nature.” Echo thinks she might hear a hint of fondness in Indra’s voice, and wonders whether this is something she should be concerned about.

“But-”

Roan’s palm slams down on Indra’s desk, silencing the conspirators. “This is not about Clarke. This is not about wrath or butchery or vengeance, this is about the spirit of our Commander. It’s Lexa’s _spirit_ we need. If there was a way to remove her spirit and leave Lexa living, I would do it. It grieves me that Lexa must bleed, but I will not see any others fall for this. We will deal with Skaikru when the time comes, I’m sure, but in the meantime the last thing we need is to give them another reason to attack us.”  

“It’s getting late.” Tolk is standing by the door, eyeing the street. “Or, well, early.” He grins at the others. “Either way, if we don’t want to be found having a pretty suspicious breakfast together we gotta get going.”

They all start to move, but there is one thing they haven’t talked about yet.

“Are we sure Lexa will come before the people?” Echo asks. “She’s been avoiding public appearances for days now.”

Indra looks at her for a moment then responds, resigned to her fate, “Tomorrow, for the market day. I will go to her. I will make sure she comes before the people on the steps of Polis.”

“Then it is decided.” Roan nods, already pulling his hood back up to cover his face. “We will leave you now Indra.”  

And with that the conspirators disperse into the vanishing night.

 

* * *

 

**Bryan, March 14th 2150**

 

Screams and cries echo down the Ark hallway as Bryan approaches the Medical Bay. Pike finally gave the order early this morning: the Grounds are to be rounded up and kept in detention. Someone must have tipped the Grounders in the village off yesterday, which means there's a spy in camp. Because of that spy, the mission had been a disaster; Bryan shudders just thinking about it. He hadn’t known Zoe Monroe well, but he’d liked her, and no one deserved what she had got.

Bryan rounds the corner and comes to a halt at the entrance of the Medical Bay. The Grounders are all being pulled out of their beds and marched out towards lockup. He watches, dispassionate, as a young woman - all skin and bones and tangled black hair - get dragged out the door. Even emaciated with illness and unarmed, she manages to put up a fight, kicking, spitting and heaving as two guards carry her away down the hall and out of sight.

He feels no pity, listening to their cries of innocence. Most of these people probably weren’t involved in warning the village, but that doesn’t mean they’re innocent: they’ve attacked, tortured, and murdered Bryan’s people. They tried to kill the original Hundred, and if it weren’t for some quick thinking on their part, all of them would be dead. _Nathan_ would be dead. Another shudder passes down Bryan’s spine. In the face of everything they’ve done to the Arkers, how could anyone think peace is even a possibility?

In the centre of the Medical Bay, Bryan finds Bellamy standing at attention, surveying the chaos. His face is a mask, impossible to read. Bellamy looks around and catches his eye.

“Pike’s been asking for you,” Bellamy says in a stiff voice. “He wants you to report to his office.”

A twist of anxiety coils in Bryan’s gut. “Alright,” he says, keeping his voice level. “Thanks, man.”

Bellamy barely quirks an eyebrow in response, and Bryan’s anxiety is replaced by a spark of irritation. He can’t really get a read on Bellamy: he knows all the Hundred, Nathan included, are falling over themselves to explain what a big hero the guy is, but Bryan doesn’t see it. Bellamy is terse, distant to the point of cold, humourless, and honestly a bit of an asshole.

Whatever. He leaves Bellamy to oversee the movement of the prisoners and instead turns back the way he came, towards the office in the far corner of the Ark.

On the short walk, Bryan has plenty of time to work his nerves back up. He loves Pike, would die for the guy, and has been to hell and back with him. So, sure, he’d consider them to be close, but that still doesn’t explain why he’s been summoned to the Chancellor’s office for a one-on-one. It’s never happened before, and Bryan can’t help but feel that whatever Pike wants, it can’t possibly be good.

By the time he reaches Pike’s office, Bryan’s hands are shaking with nervous anticipation as he raps his knuckles across the door.

“Come in,” a muffled command filters through the closed door.

Pike is seated behind his large desk in the centre of the room, but he stands quickly when Bryan opens the door.

“Bryan, come in.”

“Bellamy said you requested to see me, sir?”

“I did, yes,” Pike motions for Bryan to sit in one of the chairs by his desk, “How’s the containment going? I assume that’s where you’ve come from?”

Bryan nods, sitting down as Pike perches across from him on the front of his desk. “There is some resistance, but Blake seems to have it under control.”

“Good. That’s good. It’s a bad business, all of this,” Pike begins slowly, “You know I never wanted to imprison any Grounder under our care.”

“I know, sir, but with everything that happened yesterday… we can’t take the chance. if there is a spy in the camp, what choice do you have?”

Pike hums thoughtfully. “We’ve been through a lot haven’t we, Bryan?”

The sharp turn in the conversation is doing nothing for Bryan’s sense of unease. He still has no idea what this is all about, so he has no choice but to go along with him. “Yes sir, we have.”

“Remember the aerobic classes we lead in that horrible cave?”

Bryan can't help but smile at the memory. “Yes, sir. It was… an experience.”

“It was a humiliation that we will never live down,” Pike quips back with a replying smile.

“The exercise was fine, sir, it was once Alfred started singing that the wheels really came off the cart.”

The two men share a burst of laughter. “He said it made the workout ‘more fun’-”

“I remember, sir, but I think he and I disagree on the definition of fun.”

“Fingers-and-Toes aerobics, that’s what we called it.”

“That’s right.”

“We said it was for fun, for our own enjoyment.” Pike’s expression sobers abruptly. “But really it was to keep away the frostbite,” he says it like a confession, like an admission of guilt.

“I know, sir,” Bryan replies, his voice warm. He’d been following Pike’s lead, working by his side to protect their people. “Thanks to you we didn’t lose a single digit.” Bryan looks up at Pike with pride. His leader: the man who will always protect them, even when they don’t know it.

“We’ve certainly come a long way since then, haven’t we?”

Bryan nods again, still unsure where this could be heading. “Yes, sir.”

Pike stands up and walks around behind his desk, “You’re right, Bryan, there is certainly something going on in this camp, but it may not be a spy.”

They’re getting to the point, then. Bryan shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “If not a spy, then what?”

“A traitor.”

Bryan’s heart stutters. “What?”

“Those Grounders were under constant guard. It would have been impossible for them to get any message out of this camp without help from one of us.”

“But who would do that?” Even as he says it, Bryan’s mind has started - almost against his will - to filter through the options. Lincoln, his vanishing match, their friends...

“There are plenty of people in this camp who don’t agree with my methods. People who think Arkadia would be better under someone else’s rule.”

“Kane? You think Kane is the traitor.” The spike of sharp, painful relief is something Bryan doesn’t want to examine too closely.

“Yes, good thinking,” Pike settles down in his chair behind the desk. From the other side, Bryan hears the slide of a desk drawer. “Kane is absolutely under suspicion,” Pike continues, “and that’s why I need your help. You are able to help me, aren’t you Bryan?”

It’s an absurd question, with only one possible answer: “of course, sir.”

Pike seems to have found what he was looking for in his desk. He holds out his open palm, in the center sits a small circular piece of metal no larger than a coin. “Do you know what this is?”

Bryan peers at it. It looks innocuous. “No, sir.”

“This is a bug.” Pike holds it carefully between his thumb and forefinger. “It you place it somewhere, we can pick up a radio signal and overhear everything that’s being said. Placed in a room, or on someone’s jacket, can you see how that might be useful?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” Pike pauses a moment as he inspects the bug in front of him. “There is something else that has been troubling me, Bryan.”

“Sir?”

“Very few people knew the details of the mission to the village yesterday. Whoever tipped them off knew exactly when we were coming, and to which village, and why we were there.”

Bryan hadn’t thought of that. He looks again at the bug still in Pike’s hand. ”Maybe the room was already bugged by one of them,” he suggests.

“Very possible, but you understand that in situations like this we need to explore every option, even if it’s just to prove innocence.”

Bryan again senses that Pike is leading up to something; the sinking feeling in his stomach is back.

“What’s your relationship to Nathan Miller?” Pike asks like it’s nothing more than a passing curiosity, but Bryan recognizes the sharp edge to the question. His anxiety ratchets up a notch.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

“But not your match.”

“ _Sir_?”

“Forgive the impertinent question,” Pike quickly apologizes, “but I need to know if we’re going to have a problem. Matches aren’t rational. They make bold, dumb, rash decisions because they are blinded by colour. You’re not like that, right Bryan? You’re still in possession of your ability to see the entirety of the situation. The big picture.”

Bryan feels himself trapped, what can he say but the truth? “Yes, sir,” he stutters past a hard lump in his throat.

“I want to believe him innocent of all of this, but he was here at the meeting and then did not join for the mission. This must be treated as suspicious.”

“What about McIntyre?” Bryan asks. He can hear the plea in his voice but he can’t help it. “She was in the meeting too, sir, and she also didn’t go to the village.”

Pike’s eyes are almost pitying. “That’s true,” he allows, “but McIntyre’s movements the night before the raid all check out, she was on duty with Gillmer from 20:00 to 04:00. It’s not iron-clad, and we’ll be looking into her too, but for the time being Miller is the larger suspect: his whereabouts are unaccounted for from 23:00 to 01:00.”

 _He was with me_ , Bryan wants to say. The lie is right there on his tongue, begging for release. But he remembers Nathan shuffling into bed, waking him in the middle of the night. His toes were freezing and his skin smelled of night air. Doubt, ice-cold and persistent, prickles across Bryan’s skin.

“I’m sure his reasons all check out, same with Harper McIntyre,” Pike says gently, “but I need to be sure. That’s all this is. I just need to be sure.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Bryan nods one last time.

 

* * *

 

**Monty, March 14th 2150**

 

All day Monty watches Raven. He also watches Jasper, who is also watching Raven.

He worries for them both.

When Monty saw Raven early that morning he’d tried, and failed, to talk to her. It had been like they were speaking different languages. Raven, distracted and smiling, kept muttering about light, and colour, and how _beautiful_ the world is. She seemed happy, and at peace, and like nothing could hurt her. Monty has never seen a high like it, and it scares him. Maybe it’s wrong to be so afraid of his friend’s happiness, but he is. He’s downright petrified. Because it has to be a fake - that weird white drug - and Monty knows enough about drugs to know that what comes up must come down. With that kind of up, he shudders to think what the down might be.

So he follows her from a distance all day, watching as she sits in the sun, or walks aimlessly around the camp, or smiles listlessly at anyone who passes by. Mostly, it’s boring as hell, but he does learn a couple things while he watches her. Most importantly, she’s not the only one. He sees Jackson, Mel, and others meandering around camp like cheap puppets trying to imitate people. Their smiles are too broad, their words too slow and elongated, it gives him the creeps.

He also learns that the drug is definitely a hallucinogen of some kind. Not just simulating colour, but people. More than once he hears Raven speak to Finn directly - could the drug simulate each person’s match? He can’t know from watching alone, but it’s a start. All of it helps him to gradually, piece by piece, try and understand what this drug might be doing.

Mentally, he filters through all the drugs he knows, all of their chemical properties, their active ingredients, their effects on mood, or on vision, or on pain receptors. He calculates the time it took from ingestion to effect (frightening short, as far as he can tell), and what this means for the estimated length of the high. He tries to estimate what this will mean for the length of the detox, but there are too many variables, too many questions without answers. All morning he tries to put _something_ together, make some kind of connection that might help these people. He comes up empty.

It’s around midday when he notices Jasper. He’s also been shadowing Raven with the same distanced determination as Monty. At first Monty just avoided him, pretending not to notice, but as Raven meanders slowly to the perimeter of camp, he catches up to Jasper. He comes up behind him, both of them hanging back in Raven’s wake.

He pulls Jasper’s shoulder to stop him and turn him around. “What are you doing, Jasper?”

Jasper looks at him incredulously. They haven’t spoken since their fight by the dropship the day of the funeral. “The same as you. I’m keeping an eye on our friend Raven.”

“Have you taken the drug?”  

“Of course I haven’t taken the freaking coo-coo powder!” Jasper snaps, dismissive and a little hurt. “If I did you’d know cause I’d be laughing about some stupid bright city.”

“I just thought-“ Monty starts, trying to backpedal.

“Well you thought wrong.”

Monty notices with a jolt that his friend’s breath doesn’t reek of alcohol the way it usually does these days.

“Sorry.”

“What are you even still doing here? You’ve been following us around all day, don’t you have somewhere to be, little soldier boy? Mommy-dearest doesn’t need you for her crusade?”

“Leave it,” Monty snaps, remembering again why he’s been avoiding Jasper for weeks. Hannah has always loved Jasper like a son, was as upset as anyone to see what’s happened to him since arriving on Earth.

“Whatever.” Jasper shrugs, “why are you even doing this? Just go back to being a good little mass murderer, I can look after Raven.”

“Raven is my friend too.” Monty hesitates, his eyes dropping from Jasper’s intense stare, “so was Monroe. What happened to her… it didn’t need to go down like that. It didn’t need to go down _at all_. Pike is wrong.”

“So, what?” Jasper asks after a beat. His voice is less sharp, but his arms are still folded across his chest. “You just, like, quit? Is that allowed?”

Shame burns across Monty’s skin, and he would really like it if Jasper could stop just _staring_ at him. “Technically I guess I’ve gone AWOL. I just stopped turning up for shifts.” Privately, he thinks his mom’s probably been covering for him with Pike, at least a little. He can’t imagine Pike is the sort of person who takes kindly to deserters, but Monty can’t care about that right now: not when his friends are in trouble.

“Come on,” Monty says, urging Jasper forward and off the topic. “She’s getting away.”

Jasper goes without anymore prompting, leading the way as Monty follows. For his part, Monty’s still not convinced that Jasper isn’t tempted by the happy-drug. Word is it lets people see in colour, and surely that must be Jasper’s greatest wish; it’s what he’s been desperate for all these months. He must be at least _thinking_ about it. Monty would be lying if he said even he wasn’t at least a little bit curious. After all, given the choice, who doesn’t want to see in colour?   

 

* * *

 

**Bryan, March 14th 2150**

 

Nathan is half-dressed when Bryan slips inside some half hour later. He’s sitting on the edge of their bed, pulling a dark shirt on over his head. Their quarters are cramped and warm and too small for the two of them, but Bryan loves it so much more when Nathan’s there. His heart squeezes painfully as he fingers the small metal disk in his pocket.

“Hey,” Miller says when he spots Bryan by the door. He stands and takes a couple of quick steps forward.

Kicking his brain back into gear, Bryan moves too, greeting Miller with a brief kiss on his cheek. The movement is so familiar, so natural, Bryan’s a little worried he might burst into tears if he doesn’t get his shit together.

Everything’s fine. Everything’s normal. _Be normal_. “You’re heading out?” he asks, noting the pair of worn boots clutched in Miller’s left hand. He watches Miller take a seat on their small plastic couch, heeling his feet into his boots.

Miller’s jaw clenches, almost imperceptibly. “I told you, it’s Zoe’s memorial this evening.”

 _Shit_ , Bryan knew that. In his defence, he’s a little distracted with contemplating betraying the person he loves most on this sorry little planet, but he can hardly tell Nathan that. “Sorry, of course,” Bryan shakes his head. “You’ll come home after?” Maybe Bryan won’t have to do this right now. Maybe he can slip the bug into Miller’s pocket while he’s asleep, or in the bathroom, or whenever, just not _now_. He doesn’t know if he can do it while Nathan’s looking at him, his eyes open and the memory of his lips still tingling on Bryan’s cheek.

It doesn't matter, because Nathan’s already shaking his head. “I’m on south patrol tonight.”

Right. Bryan sighs. “You want to explain to me why we don’t work the same detail anymore?” Suspicion and longing war uncomfortably in his blood, and he knows Nathan will be able to hear it in his voice.

Sure enough, Miller’s expression is guarded when he looks up from lacing his boots. “You like days, I like nights.”

“I told you I’d switch - didn’t you say you would talk to Bellamy?” Suspicion is beginning to win out.

“Yeah, I just… haven’t had the time.”

 _Pike’s right_ , Bryan thinks as he takes in the shuttered emotion in Nathan’s eyes, _he’s been lying to me._

“Yeah, I noticed you haven’t been around much lately.”

He wants to understand, wants to find a way to fix this. Dropping his jacket onto the bed, Bryan rounds back to stand in front of Miller, meeting his dark eyes head on. “Nate, what’s going on?” _Please don’t lie to me anymore. You’re not that good at it. Please just tell me so we can fix this._

Nathan forces a laugh. “Nothing,” and the lie is so obvious Bryan wants to scream.

“Something,” he pokes instead, trying to keep his voice light and teasing. He’s better at this than Nathan is, but he knows that both of them are treading a dangerous line, neither one willing, apparently, to back down.

They keep having the same damn argument. Bryan knows that Nathan has never liked Pike, knows that he still resents Bryan’s assumption that he would join their cause. They go through the motions of the same fight they’ve been having for weeks. Really, now that the seed of doubt has been planted, Bryan’s kicking himself for not suspecting Miller sooner. He was always Kane’s man, has always been a friend to Lincoln and Octavia, has always spoken up for the rights of the Grounders under Abby’s medical care.

Maybe he had known. Even as they argue, Bryan remembers his feeling of dread at meeting with Pike, his concern for Miller before any mention of a traitor was even raised. He’s known, and he just needed Pike to get him to pony up and do something about it.

“I gotta go,” Nathan says at last, his tone final. His hand rests, warm and firm on the back of Bryan’s neck for a moment, and then he’s standing, moving to grab his weapons belt from the bed.

That’s it. He’s not going to confess, he’s not going to let Bryan in.

And suddenly Bryan doesn’t feel guilty, he feels heartsick. He’s not the one betraying Miller’s trust, he’s the one who’s been betrayed. Nathan’s been feeding secrets to the enemy. He could have gotten them all killed. He’s the one responsible for what happened to Monroe.

Making a decision, Bryan surges to his feet and selects Nathan’s jacket from the small closet. His slight of hand is nowhere near as good as Miller’s, but it’s enough to gently slip the bug into the lining of the jacket. It’s done before Nathan’s even turned around.

“Here.” Bryan holds up the jacket for Nathan to put on.

He accepts it silently.

“Are you coming to the memorial?” Nathan asks after a moment.

“I - yeah. I’ll catch you up.”

Miller frowns at him, but doesn’t argue. He’s about to leave when he stops. Huffing out a gentle sigh, he steps back again and puts a hand around the back of Bryan’s head, his fingers catching the tangles of hair at the nape of his neck. Without a word he pulls Bryan gently forward, kissing him with a tenderness that squeezes at Bryan’s heart.

Chaste but lingering, it feels like an apology.

After a moment, Nathan steps back again. “I’ll see you later.”

He turns away and Bryan’s gaze flicks automatically down to the fold of Nathan’s coat, where the bug is tucked away.

Guilt is a knife twist in Bryan’s gut as he watches Nathan leave.

 

* * *

 

**Nathan, March 14th 2150**

 

The memorial for Monroe is a joke. Small and short, it’s mainly an excuse for Pike to further justify everything he’s done so far and to get everybody worked up all over again as he vows to avenge Zoe’s death by killing more Grounders. Everyone else is still chanting and cheering grotesquely as Miller slips away, disgusted with it all. He sees Bryan among them and feels vaguely sick. He spends so much effort, these days, trying not to blame Bryan. Trying to understand his perspective and his loyalty to Pike, which he knows was hard won through months of struggle, but it's getting tougher. He's tired and he's lonely and he's so sick of this.

The sun has finished setting over the western horizon, but he won’t be looked for on duty for another hour still. He might even have time for a nap - if he's very lucky he might actually fall asleep this time.

He arrives back in the quarters he shares with Bryan to realize that he’s been followed. As Miller turns, he sees Bellamy has caught the door behind him and hovers in the doorway, surveying the room.

“What is it, Bellamy?” Miller’s tone is sharp. He already knows he doesn’t have the patience for whatever this is about.

Bellamy steps into the room and lets the door close behind him before he speaks.

“Miller, look, I need your help.”

Before Miller has a chance to fully evaluate his response, his body is already reacting and his right fist is slamming across the side of Bellamy’s face.

Bellamy takes the hit without making any move to retaliate or protect himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says once he is standing straight again.

With those two long-overdue words, something in Miller snaps. Everything he’s been trying so hard to bury, all his hurt, his anger, his sense of betrayal and alienation, all come surging the surface in a wave of fury of strong that Miller’s vision blurs red for a moment. This time, he is fully aware of what he’s doing and he enjoys it as the weight of his second punch throws Bellamy to the side.

“You’re sorry? FUCK YOU! Monroe is dead because of you! She’s dead!” Angry tears fall out of Miller’s eyes as he advances on Bellamy and punches him once more, his fist connecting with Bellamy’s diaphragm, forcing the air from his lungs. “She trusted you, she thought you had a plan - that you knew what you were doing - and you betrayed her. You drove Clarke and Octavia away, you imprisoned Lincoln; we’re your people, we trusted you more than anyone, and you betrayed all of us.”  

Bellamy waits for Miller to finish and then slowly pulls himself upright, still refusing to do anything to defend himself.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Bellamy’s voice is small as he looks up to meet Miller’s eyes. Miller considers punching him again, but he looks so pathetic just standing there, crimson blood dripping from his nose, just waiting for more punishment. Miller walks away to the other side of the room instead.  

“I never meant for anything to happen to Monroe, I thought I could protect her, I thought what I was doing was the best way to protect you all. I was wrong.”

Miller is stopped short by Bellamy’s admission. “What do you mean you were wrong? When did you figure that out? What’s changed?”

“Pike knows that Lincoln and the other Grounders had nothing to do with the mission going sideways, but he’s still putting them in jail, and even that won’t be enough to satisfy this camp. Did you hear them all just now at Monroe’s memorial? They want blood, and they’ll take it.”

“You think they’ll kill the Grounders in lock up?”

“I’m not willing to risk Lincoln’s life on it. We need to get them out.”   

Every fiber of Miller’s body is on high alert. Now they’ve come to it. “We?”

“I know Clarke and Octavia got out somehow. Please tell me you know how they did it.”

Anger reignites in Miller’s blood. “How dumb do you think I am Bellamy?”

“What?”

“You think I’m just going to admit to treason so you and Pike have the excuse to lock me up too?”

“No. It’s not like that.”

“How can you possibly think that I could ever trust you right now?”

“Please Miller, I’m not here for Pike, I swear. All I’ve ever tried to do is to protect our people, I thought Pike’s way... it seemed to make sense… but now I see that no one is safe here anymore. I know I’ve fucked up, and believe me the cost of those mistakes will haunt me forever, but I’m trying to do the right thing now. I should have listened to you!” Bellamy sinks down to the floor, his back against the door, overcome. “I should have listened to you and Kane... and Clarke.”

Miller huffs, crossing his arms across his chest. “You don’t get a free pass, you know, just because your match is broken.”

Bellamy’s eyes snap up to him in blank shock. “My- my what?”

For the first time, Miller feels a flash of pity - could Bellamy really not have known? “It’s broken, Bellamy,” he says, a little softer now. “You must have realized?”

“I- I knew the colour was gone, and it felt… but the colour was altering my decision making, making me weak. Pike said it was better to see clearly in black and white than to be distracted by colour.”

“You moron. What does the colour have to do with anything? It’s never about the colour; it’s about the _person_. The colour wasn’t affecting your decision making, Clarke was, because you love her. Happens to us all, but cutting yourself off, not loving anyone isn’t the answer. Everyone makes decisions based on protecting the people they love - that doesn’t make you weak. If you think it does then I really can’t help you.”

“Can it be fixed?”

He looks so wretched sitting there, Miller begins to think that maybe he is being genuine.

“Apparently, yes.” Maybe Bellamy is finally coming back to them after all. “But I’m not an expert or anything.”  

Bellamy nods. “Okay. Well it doesn’t matter right now. Right now all that matters is that if something does happen, please tell me, can I count on your help?”  

The question hangs in the air for a moment. Miller notices that his knuckles are bleeding.  

“Yeah.” He responds at last. “I got your back.”

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, March 14th 2150**

 

She finds her exactly where she’d expected to.

Tentative, Clarke knocks lightly on the door of the study, and hears the quiet, familiar response, “come.”

It’s become a ritual of sorts. Ever since Lexa introduced her to the room, Clarke’s feet have found their way back to her study each night. Each night she would find Lexa working quietly, or reading, or sometimes just sitting, watching the people in the city below move like ants through the streets.

Tonight is no different. Clarke pushes open the door to find Lexa sitting at the small wooden table, pouring through her maps. A cup of spiced wine and a plate of fruit and cheese sits, all untouched, in the far corner of the table. Lexa looks up only when Clarke has closed the door and moved to stand behind her. She peers over Lexa’s shoulder at the same map Lexa showed her on their first night together in this room.

“What time is it?” Lexa’s eyes are dark in the dim lighting. If she could see them properly, Clarke thinks they might have looked bloodshot.

Instinctively, Clarke places a hand gingerly on Lexa’s shoulder, and if she notices the way Lexa leans into it, the way her eyes slip close in pleasure at even the softest touch, well, Clarke recognizes enough of that in herself that she wouldn’t dare comment.

Clarke looks down at her watch. It stopped a while ago. She thinks the battery must have died, and actually, she’s not even sure when exactly it happened. It may have been weeks ago, but she didn’t notice right away. Back on the Ark, every second had been scheduled. Every day had been filled with routine, with ship-wide announcements or alarms or buzzers to signal changes of shift or breaks or meals. Without that, what does time even matter?

“I don’t know,” she says eventually. “Late. Have you slept at all?”

Lexa shakes her head, shrugging off Clarke’s hand as she shifts back to looking at the map on the table. “I’ve been thinking. About your people.”

Clarke pulls up the empty chair beside Lexa and takes a seat, joining her at the table.

“Have you made a decision?”

Lexa pauses. “I am uncertain. I would seek your advice, if you are willing?”

“You don’t have to ask, Lexa. These are my people we’re talking about. Anything I can do to help, you know I’ll do.”

Lexa’s expression is surprisingly warm when she turns to look back at Clarke. “I do know, but the idea I would propose, you may not like it.”

“Tell me.”

“My options here are limited,” Lexa begins, “I cannot allow the actions of your people to go unanswered. Quite apart from my wish to maintain the goodwill of my ambassadors, the Skaikru attacks have been wanton and largely unprovoked. The Azgeda’s attack on the Mountain was, of course, also a crime, but the Ice Nation have paid the price for it twice over now, and their calls for justice are not without cause.”

Clarke remains mute. They could debate which of their people have suffered most at the hands of each other, but it would be as useless as the constant cycle of _jus drien jus daun_. In any case, she agrees that something does need to be done about the threat to peace that Pike and his followers pose.

“However, I will not allow their thirst for vengeance to outweigh the forming of a lasting peace,” Lexa continues. “So. I cannot do nothing, and I cannot allow the Clans to raise Arkadia to the ground.”

“What will you do instead?”

“As far as I can tell, I have two choices. The first is the barricade. I command the armies of the twelve Clans to hold a line five miles in all directions, enclosing Arkadia and preventing them from expanding their territory. Any Sky Person found in breach of the barricade would be subject to a kill order.”

Clarke’s heart falls to the pit of her stomach. “Oh.”

“That option is unacceptable,” Lexa says quickly, “for a number of reasons. Indra is right that it would be time consuming and costly to move all Clan armies. It would open us up to attacks elsewhere in the Clans, it is a short-term solution to a long-term problem, and I suspect Arkadia would take it as an invitation to again attack an army at rest. Also...” Lexa trails off.

“Also?” Clarke prompts, her heart pounding with a potent mix of hope and desire.

“I would not be parted from you, if it could be avoided.”

Clarke smiles, warmth pooling in her stomach. Their knees are pressing together under the table, sending warm sparks up and down Clarke’s leg. Their chairs are so close that Clarke can use Lexa's armrest as her own, and Clarke feels herself hyper-aware of every breath Lexa takes, every shift in her position, every tiny movement of her hands. For her part, Lexa seems to have lost her train of thought entirely, her eyes lingering blatantly on Clarke’s lips. All Clarke wants in the world is to cross the final bit of space between them, to claim at last the kiss she didn’t get to enjoy all those months ago. But she can’t let herself, not yet, not when the lives of all her people still hang in the balance.

Reluctant, Clarke pulls back again, turning towards the map on the table. “What’s the other option?” she asks, trying to keep her voice under control.

Lexa takes her lead, thankfully, and returns her gaze to the map. Clarke is silently very grateful - she doesn’t think she would’ve been able to keep her resolve if Lexa had again tried to kiss her.

Pulling herself forward to the edge of her chair, Lexa leans over the map. “The only other option I can see is relocation.”

“Relocation?” Clarke echoes dumbly. “From Arkadia?”

“Mmm. The fact is, that land belonged to Trikru when your people landed, and tradition has always dictated that it pass to Azgeda for the winter, when much of their land is uninhabitable. That was the terms they agreed to when they joined the Coalition, and I am honour-bound to adhere to them. It comes down to this: Skaikru cannot stay where they are.”

“Okay…” Clarke lets this sink in, turning the idea over slowly in her mind. Already, she’s trying to imagine explaining this to Pike, and Kane, and her mom. Could she convince them to leave? “We wouldn’t be able to take the Ark with us,” Clarke begins to think it through aloud. “We would have to abandon it. Abandon our Medical Bay, Engineering, most of our technology is tied to the infrastructure on the ruins of the Ark.”

“It would be a challenge,” Lexa allows, “but the alternative-”

“I understand,” Clarke agrees quickly, and she does. She feels her mind melting around the idea, accepting an imaginary future for herself and her people where they live somewhere new, a fresh start. “Where?”

Lexa points to a section of land on the map, out beyond the western plains. “It’s far,” she says. “Further than any of our Clans have settled. We’ve sent scouts over the years and never found any inhabitants. Our populations are still too sparse for it to be worth the effort to colonize it, but as far as we can tell the land is arable. It’s prone to severe weather, twisters, storms that can last several days, but all land has its perils.”

“It could work,” Clarke replies, her fingers tracing the land beyond the western borders. Their new home? “ _Thank you_ , Lexa. This could solve everything.”

Lexa flushes with a pleased smile. “Indra has suggested I take petitions from the Clans during the Market Day tomorrow. I have been in the Tower too long, it is time I speak with my people. At the end of the petitioning, I will announce the decision. Perhaps we can still have our peace after all, Clarke.”

Standing from the table, Lexa begins to fold up her maps. Clarke follows suit. The solution is still sinking into her bones, filling her, gradually, with an overwhelming conviction that she will - she _will_ \- be able to convince Arkadia to join her. It will be dangerous, but it will be safer than their current position.

“We could have a land to ourselves,” Clarke says, stepping over to the study window.

“You will remain a member of the coalition, of course,” Lexa assures her, joining Clarke to stand by the window. “The thirteen Clan, with borders of your own and an ambassador position in Polis… If you wanted it…?”

Lexa looks at her, expectant and hopeful and so beautiful that Clarke is going to lose her mind. She knows she should be careful, knows that getting involved with Lexa would be a bad idea - if not downright dangerous - for both of them. Even so, the alluring pull has been getting stronger, and harder to ignore with every one of those warm, trusting smiles that Lexa seems to reserve just for her. It’s enough to make Clarke forget - just for a second - the hundreds of people who are counting on her, the pressure of their lives on her shoulders, the murderous whispers of Polis’ Ambassadors, and her constant, relentless fear for the people she loves.

For a moment, under Lexa’s tender gaze, she can just be Clarke Griffin: a pretty girl who likes another pretty girl.

At last, she surges forward, pulling Lexa to her, claiming the kiss she’s been waiting for so long to take.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying the story so far! 
> 
> Bonus cool points for anyone who recognizes what famous scene in literature the first Echo section is a take on. (we're pretty big Shakespeare nerds - see icon)


	17. March 15th 2150: The Ides of March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the point where we leave canon behind completely and, to paraphrase Bellamy, tell our own damn story. 
> 
> Enjoy!!

**Jasper, March 15th 2150**

 

They’ve camped out in the far corner of the Engineering Bay, tucked behind an abandoned water tank, taking turns staying up to watch her. It’s Jasper’s turn. Beside him, Monty is curled into a ball on the floor, his breathing slow and even as he sleeps.

The Engineering Bay is quiet, no one’s disturbed them all night. Jasper figures with Wick and Sinclair away on some kind of secret mission or whatever, there really is no one left to work here. No one except Raven. Raven has made a deadly boring subject of study for the last few hours. She sits perched on one of the tall metal stools at a table in the centre of the room. She’s not working on anything. She’s not doing much of anything at all. Mostly she just sits there, staring vaguely. Though, over the last few hours, something has started to change: Jasper thinks she seems sad again, and she’s been blinking a lot. Maybe she’s starting to come back to herself, or maybe Jasper’s just been staring at her for so long he's started seeing signs when there aren't any.

He looks back at Monty next to him, still sleeping peacefully. He was kind of an ass about it, but it’s been nice to have his friend working with him again. They missed Monroe’s memorial last night. He had wanted to go, meant to go, but that was around the time Raven had stopped smiling and came here to Engineering and he felt he needed to be here for her. Besides, that memorial wouldn’t have been about Monroe anyway. Not the real Monroe, not their Monroe. Their Monroe wouldn’t have cared about a stupid candle lit in her honour; she would have cared about Raven and making sure she’s okay.

Jasper’s throat goes tight at the thought of her. He wants to ask Monty about it, wants to hear what happened to her, and why. But at the mention of Monroe last night, Monty had gone dark around the eyes in a way that Jasper had never seen before in his friend. The demons that haunt them just keep on multiplying, apparently.

Suddenly Jasper notices that Raven has started twitching, a look of panic slowly growing on her face. Jasper nudges Monty to wake him just as Raven leaps up, knocking her stool to the ground with a loud clatter.

Jasper is on his feet in an instant, moving towards her. “Hey Raven,” he tries to keep his voice calm, but he can’t keep the tremble of fear out of it, “how are you feeling?”

Raven’s head snaps to him as if seeing him there for the first time. “Out of my way.”

She pushes past Jasper towards the door. Monty, now awake and thinking fast, has already planted himself in front of the exit.

“Raven, we just want to talk a second,” Monty tries.

“GET OUT OF MY WAY!” Raven’s voice rips through. It’s a ferocity of anger Jasper’s never seen before, not on Raven, not on anyone. It sets his heart pounding in his ears.

Without warning Raven lifts the stool off the ground and hurls it at Monty. He ducks out of the way just in time, looking stunned but unhurt.

“What is it you want, Raven?” Jasper asks, his voice shaking now.

“I need to return. It’s gone and I need it back. I NEED IT!”

“Okay, it’s okay. Where is it you need to return?”

“The City of Light.” A weird reverence comes over Raven’s face that scares Jasper more than all the yelling and stool throwing combined.

“Umm, alright.” Jasper has no idea where he’s going with this.

“You can come too Jasper. You must. You’ll be happy there. Everything is colour there. It’s the world as it was meant to be.”

“Why don’t you stay here for just a minute,” Monty cuts in, “and we’ll go get it for you.”

“NO.” Raven rounds on Monty spitting with rage again. “I’M GOING. NOW.”

“Raven we can’t let you leave.”

“You think you are going to stop me?” A maniacal and vicious laugh bursts from Raven, “Pathetic little Monty, who will commit genocide as long as he’s asked nicely.”

The severity of the attack catches them both off guard. Monty flinches and Raven laughs again, then violently shoves him out of the way and flings the door open. It slams heavily behind her.

Jasper crosses the room and offers Monty a hand up off the ground. “We need to go after her.”

“No,” Monty says slowly, “This is much worse than I imagined. This is beyond us. We need help.”  

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy, March 15th 2150**

 

“What the hell is wrong with you, Bellamy?”

The words come flying from behind him. Bellamy stops in his tracks in the middle of the hallway, turning around warily.

“You know I’ve been trying to make excuses for you in my head for so long now, but this is just too far.” Harper, her eyes full of fire, advances till she has Bellamy backed against the wall. “Miller is your friend. He trusted you. I just can’t believe it. How could you betray him like that?”

The wounded fury in Harper’s voice sends a chill down Bellamy’s spine. His mind races, trying to find a cause for her rage and trying to understand what part he played in earning it. All day he’s been keeping a low profile, staying out of the way in preparation for their jail break tonight. He hasn’t even heard from Miller since last night, when he agreed to help. The plan is to meet up with Miller during the evening guard change over and go from there. He certainly hasn’t done anything to his knowledge that betrayed him. At least not recently.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you’re probably going to get me thrown in jail now too for saying this-”

“Jail?” Bellamy interrupts, a swoop of fear rushing through him. “Harper tell me what happened to Nathan.”

Harper starts at the nervous command in his voice. “He was taken away by Pike’s men this morning, under suspicion of being a traitor.”

 _Shitshitshitshitshit._ Bellamy’s mind spins.

“I know you spoke to him about some escape plan – pretended to apologize – then after he agreed to help you, you turned him in.” Harper is looking him up and down, anger and disgust plain on her face. “I just need to hear you say it. I need to hear you admit what a traitorous piece of shit you are!”

Suddenly, like a light switch going on, the situation becomes clear to Bellamy. He raises his hand to stop Harper from saying anything more and, after glancing around the hall to make sure they’re alone, he puts a finger over his mouth to indicate quiet. Harper's confused eyes follow him as he pulls out a notebook and pencil from his jacket. He writes quickly.

_THEY MUST BE LISTENING_

He watches as Harper’s eyes go wide with understanding, then narrow again in suspicion. He flips to a new page and writes.

_I DIDN’T BETRAY MILLER._

Harper looks at the paper, then skeptically up to him. Bellamy pleads with his eyes, desperate that she believe him. After a moment he goes to write again.

_WE ARE ALL IN DANGER_

Himself more than anyone. If Pike knows about his conversation with Miller last night, then he knows about Bellamy’s part in it too. He’s surprised he hasn’t already been arrested, but then again Pike’s probably waiting to see what else he’ll do, who else he’ll implicate.

_I’M BREAKING HIM AND THE OTHERS OUT TONIGHT._

Harper stares at him hard for a long moment. Then, finally, she gives a short and sharp nod. Relief floods through Bellamy.

 _3_ _rd_ _WATCH SHIFT. AT THE TUNNEL ENTRANCE._

Harper nods again. It will be easy enough for her to switch shifts so she’s on patrol of that section of the Ark.

Bellamy nods in return. He wants to say so much to her, he wants to apologize a thousand times over for letting them all down. He has been trying to be a better leader, but it turns out he’s become a terrible one. Harper seems to understand some of his thoughts as she raises a hand to rest on his shoulder reassuringly. Then, after a moment, she gives him a swift, mischievous smile before turning to walk away back down the hall.

 

* * *

 

**Monty, March 15th 2150**

 

It doesn’t take them long to convince Abby that the drug is bad news and Raven is in danger. As they stride quickly through the camp, already Monty can see a dozen or so people all smiling vacantly and wandering in circles. Sure, they look peaceful now, but if the comedown for everyone is as bad as Raven’s was this morning, then how will they ever get any of them off the drug? They are a civilization fighting for their lives right now and they won’t ever survive if their people are all drugged-out zombies.

Abby leads the way into the mess hall where they find Jaha and Alie sitting at a large central table, surrounded by faces either listening intently, or completely blissed out.

Abby’s voice has all the command of a Chancellor. “Thelonious, you need to stop this.”

“Abby, there you are. Please join us.” Jaha casually responds, as if she was an invited guest who’s late for lunch.

“That drug is not safe and I will not allow you to spread it any further around this camp.”

Monty hangs back and watches as Jasper circles around the other side of the table.

“It’s perfectly safe.” Alie rises from her seat, and there is something deeply unsettling about her. Monty takes in her waxy complexion and fathomless dark eyes and wonders, idly, how old she is.      

“Raven!” Jasper shouts, drawing stares from some of the assembled crowd. He’s found her at the end of the long table, slumped over in a low chair. Monty rushes to join them, but he knows immediately that they are too late. She is on the drug again.

But there is something different about her this time. She still has a panicked edge to her as she rips open a new bag of powder, and Monty notices with alarm that there are two empty bags already sitting in front of her.

“Raven, stop!” Jasper pleads, “please stop.”

“Just- just need a little more… almost there, I just need to go back a little more.” Her voice is detached and hollow as she scoops out the powder and rubs it along her gum line.

“I’m putting out a health advisory,” Abby speaks with determined finality. “We will get this substance banned for good, I will not have you putting this camp at risk.”

Abby turns on her heel and marches away towards the main offices of the Ark.

Monty watches as Jaha and Alie slowly sit back down.

“She could make things difficult for us,” Jaha states calmly.

“Yes. It seems they do not fully understand what it is we offer them. We shall have to show them.”

Monty looks up to meet Jasper’s eye and they both exchange the same terrified look.

_What does that mean?_

 

* * *

 

**Murphy, March 15th 2150**

 

Murphy adjusts his new leather coat across his shoulders. The fabric is heavy and smells like something musky and very dead, but he has to admit it’s a hell of a lot warmer than the ancient patched and re-patched jacket he’d been wearing from his days on the Ark. Grounders’ clothes might smell like they haven’t been washed, you know, ever, but he can’t fault their functionality. He feels only slightly bad about the poor guy he stole it from on the road into Polis - or, technically, the poor guy _Emori_ stole it from - the dude definitely traded down when Murphy left him with his old clothes. The clothes which, in Emori’s exact words, made him ‘look so much like a Sky Person I want to rob you just on principle’.

“So?” he asks Emori, emerging from behind a tree with a flourish, “what do you think?” He does an exaggerated little twirl for her to get a look at him from all angles. “Are you going to let us go to Polis now?”

Emori had refused to enter the market city until after she was satisfied that Murphy would be able to blend in. Sky People are apparently not very popular with the Grounders at the moment, and as far as Murphy can tell, that feeling’s pretty mutual.

Emori appraises his new outfit for a moment, her lips pursed in consideration. “It’ll do.” She takes a couple of steps towards him, until she’s within easy reaching distance, and it takes a considerable amount of effort on Murphy’s part to keep his damn hands to himself. With a smirk, Emori reaches up and ruffles his hair. “Okay. Now you’re ready.”

Murphy grins at her, and before he knows what’s happening, Emori has her lips pressed against his, taking a kiss from him with the kind of reckless abandon that she approaches most things. For a perfect, awkward moment, Murphy’s brain is scrambling to catch up, and then he’s wrapping his arms across her lower back, pulling her towards him, losing himself in her.

 

\--

 

Polis is heaving with life by the time they finally make it to the front gates. All around them, crowds of people are pressing through the main entrance, speaking and shouting in a broken mix of languages, only portions of which Murphy has any shot in hell of recognizing.  

“Is it always like this?” he has to shout to be heard as he elbows his way past a pair of short burly men with russet skin and fire-red hair.

He can’t help staring around him at the sea of people, teeming with life and blistering colour the likes of which Murphy’s never seen. He grips Emori’s hand a little tighter as she pulls him through the crowd.

“Of course not!” she throws back to him from over her shoulder. “I told you, it’s Market Day!”

This isn’t quite what he’d pictured when Emori had told him about the market. There had been trading events once in awhile up on the Ark. A dozen or so Arkers would set up stalls of their arts and crafts, trading old socks that had been repurposed into hand towels for bits of scrap metal that someone had tried to turn into cutlery. _That_ had been their version of a market day. This? This isn’t a market, this is barely organized chaos. Everywhere Murphy looks there are stallholders vying for his attention.

“Spiced apple!”

 _“Steiks_! Only two coppers!”

“Hot and fresh!”

“ _Souda!”_

“Salted fish! Straight from the lakes of the _Podakru_!”

They pass leather-workers and blacksmiths and weavers. They slip past Grounders with ebony skin and multi-coloured tattoos, Grounders with dreadlocks flowing down to their hips, or elaborate metal-work rings on their hands, even one Grounder with gently glowing lilacs woven into his white-blonde braids. They buy spiced apple drinks and a sizzling meat Murphy can’t identify, but that tastes rich and salty and delicious. Voices and smells and colours assault them from all angles, and fuck if this isn’t the greatest place Murphy’s ever been.

“We should have arrived earlier,” Emori comments as the sun crests over the sky. “We have all this stuff we picked up on the road. We could have made a fortune today if we’d been selling it.”

Stuff they ‘picked up’ is one way to put it. They’d been casually robbing their way from Arkadia to Polis for days, but Emori’s right either way. They have a dozen bits and pieces of wares that they have no use for: spare horseshoes or dull little knives, even the odd piece of clothing that neither of them can wear.

“How do we even go about getting one of these cute little stalls?”

Emori shrugs one shoulder. “No system as far as I can tell. You just pitch up and hope no one steals your space when you go for a piss.” She pauses, considering. “So how about later today we steal someone’s space while they’re going for a piss?”

Murphy laughs, looping his arm around Emori’s waist. “I’m in.” Tilting her towards him, he leans down and kisses her. Just because he can.

Emori pulls back after a moment, a content smile on her face. “Look.” She turns away from him, indicating ahead of them.

They’ve arrived at the steps of Polis Tower. Murphy is pretty damn sure this must be Polis Tower, anyway, on account of the wide ancient steps right ahead of them, leading up to the tallest tower Murphy’s ever seen. He has to crane his neck all the way back just to look up at it - and quickly has to look away again as a wave of vertigo overtakes him.

“How is that thing still standing? It looks like a gentle breeze could-”

Murphy’s cut off by the sound of a horn, blasting from the top of the steps. He looks up and finds a small procession of people filing out of the Tower door. Summoned by the trumpet, a crowd begins to swell around them, pressing into the open space, filling the street at the foot of the steps.

“What’s going on?”

Next to him, Emori grins. “Not sure - let’s go find out.” She grabs his hand and pulls him through the crowd to get a better look at what’s happening.

People are still emerging from the Tower doors, filing along the wide top step of the building entrance. Murphy knows enough about aristocracy to recognize, with their air of superiority and clean furs, that these people are important in some way. They mingle among themselves, clearly waiting for something or someone to arrive.

That’s when he sees them: Clarke and Octavia are among the Grounder dignitaries. For a second he almost didn’t recognize them; they certainly both look like they belong among all these Grounders. They are standing off to one side, nearer to Murphy, and are talking to a tall young man who’s laughing voice carries over the noise of the crowd.

“But, but _Skaikru_ tell me this, if you _really_ lived in space, what did you eat?” he asks as he bounces around in front of them.

“I told you, Tolk, we grew food just like you do here.” Murphy catches Octavia’s annoyed reply as the man laughs infectiously over top of her.

“So you grew them, what? _Out of the air?”_

The rest of their conversation is drowned out as a wild cheer erupts from the crowd right in front of the steps.

“That’s the Commander,” Emori whispers in his ear. “She must be hearing petitions.”

For the first time, Murphy sees her. The famous Lexa. Her eyes are dark and rimmed with thick black makeup, her outfit immaculate and battle-ready, a red cape flowing behind her. She definitely seems like someone he wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of.

There is a shuffling from among the crowd, and then a handful of figures emerge. They’re also decked to the nines, their coats a complex belting of leather and fur that Murphy would probably take an hour to figure out how to put on. Five of them fan out along the steps in a wide v-shape and kneel before the Commander. At the head of the formation, kneeling just one step below the Commander, is the man who’s clearly in charge of this group of petitioners. A thick white pelt is thrown across his broad shoulders, and he speaks in a low, booming voice that carries across the steps.

Murphy would have no trouble at all hearing the guy, if he wasn’t speaking in another language.

“What’s he saying?” Murphy asks in Emori’s ear.

She frowns, clearly listening. After a moment she whispers back. “He’s petitioning the Commander for justice. He’s the King of the Ice Nation, he says his army was attacked unlawfully, he’s demanding _jus drein jus daun.”_

Noting the confused look on Murphy’s face, she clarifies. “It’s blood for blood. His people are owed blood for the wrong that was done to them. It’s how we’ve always done things… until now, apparently. It sounds as though he’s already asked before and is formally requesting she reconsider.”

The Commander is replying, also in the broad flowing language of the Grounders. “She says she will not yield. ‘Blood must not have blood’.” Emori is frowning in confusion as she takes this in.

“That’s… a big deal?” Murphy hazards a guess.

Emori nods absently, still trying to listen to the conversation on the steps. “Yes, it’s-”

She cuts off, and it’s immediately clear why.

The petitioner - the Ice Nation King - is standing slowly. Clear as a bell, his voice carries across the steps, in English.

“So be it.”

Suddenly a lot of things happen at once.

As if in slow motion, and yet so fast that Murphy barely has time to process what’s going on, the Ice King yells something that sounds a whole lot like a war cry. From nowhere, he produces a knife. It glints in the sun for a split second, before the man is rushing forward, stabbing the Commander. As his knife lodges deep in her shoulder, at least a dozen others surge up - all four from the steps, and more, emerging from everywhere, from the crowd, from among the dignitaries at the top of the steps, even from the Commander’s own guard - they slip like ghosts, their blades slicing at Lexa.

Blood flies in every direction, thick sprays of dark black, and in the height of activity everyone - the onlookers, most of the nobles on the steps, even Lexa herself - seems suspended in shock. Then it’s done, and as the assassins move away from her, Murphy just catches sight of Lexa slumping backwards into the arms of one of her killers. It’s a Grounder Murphy recognizes.

“Even you, Indra?” Lexa’s voice is filled with disbelief as Indra lowers her gently to the ground.

A strangled cry bursts from the top of the steps, and Murphy turns to catch sight of Clarke, desperate with shock and grief. She’s being held back by the boy, laughing no more. His arms have her trapped in a vice-grip, completely unmoved by her attempts to scramble free. His relaxed smile is gone, replaced by a look of grim determination. Beside them, Octavia is watching everything unfold in white-faced horror.  

Clarke’s screams are soon drowned out by the yells of the Grounders on the steps. All of them are now marked with the Commander’s pitch-black blood.

“FREEDOM!”

“LIBERTY!”

“TYRANNY IS DEAD!”

“The Spirit of the Commander is FREE, LONG LIVE THE COMMANDER!”

A bone-chilling chant that Murphy doesn’t understand is taken up by the entire crowd. He watches, equal parts fascinated and disgusted, as each of the dignitaries - those involved in the attack and those who had stood by - step down to Lexa’s prone body, and dip their hands into the growing pools of blood around her. One by one, they all lift their bloody hands in the air. The Commander’s black blood shimmers unnaturally in the sunlight. Slowly, they march down the steps in a long procession, their hands thrust in the air the whole way. The one holding Clarke back is the last to follow. He releases Clarke only once the Ice King, still in the lead, has reached the bottom of the steps, before he too takes some of the Commander’s blood and joins the march. The crowd parts for the procession as they approach, and then follows on in their wake. Soon, the chanting is fading down the street, and the crowd is gone.

Emori and Murphy alone are left standing, the space feeling suddenly empty and deadly quiet. Murphy chances a glance up at the steps, where only three figures remain: Lexa, dead on the steps of the Tower, Octavia, and Clarke. Clarke who, now free from her restrainer, has rushed towards Lexa’s body.

Murphy knows immediately that he will probably regret this decision, but he doesn’t hesitate as he grabs Emori’s hand and pulls her towards the steps.

As they get closer, Murphy can see clearly the drips of blood running down each step. In his shock, he hadn’t really thought about the colour, but isn’t blood supposed to be red? He’s really pretty sure about that one. He can’t help staring at the jet black liquid dripping down the steps.

Clarke, tears streaking her face, is already in full doctor mode when they reach them.

“I need bandages! HELP!”  

Emori instantly starts unwrapping her hand and passing the cloth over to Clarke. Murphy feels his heart swell with love and pride at her bravery, accompanied with a pang of fear: if someone sees her hand, she’ll be cast out again.

Clarke accepts the bandage, without evening seeming to register the unfamiliar Grounder who’d passed it to her, and quickly starts wrapping various wounds. To Murphy’s surprise, he watches as Lexa’s eyes flutter.

“Holy shit, she’s alive?!” Maybe he didn’t mean to say that out loud.

Octavia’s eyes flick up to him and he watches as disbelief flashes across her face.

“ _Murphy?_ What the-”

“Maybe we can save the heartwarming reunion for another time,” he suggests. “Right now I figure you guys might want to be getting the hell out of dodge.”

“He’s right,” Emori echoes. “They are doing a lap of the city, but they will be back soon. Very soon.”

“We can’t leave her.” Clarke chokes, her voice thick with tears.

“Obviously we’re not leaving her,” Octavia snaps, already moving into position to grab Lexa’s feet, “but yeah we need to move because they just overthrew their Commander, primarily because she sided with us over them. So I’m guessing we’re not high on their list of favourite people right now.”

“We can’t go yet.” Clarke’s voice is high and thready, but focused. “Murphy come here, I need your help.”

Still wondering what had possessed him to come help in the first place, Murphy kneels down beside Lexa’s body, opposite Clarke. “What can I do?” he asks, despite himself.

“Hold pressure here.” She indicates a long, deep cut across Lexa’s upper chest. He does as he’s told, even as Emori’s wrapping quickly becomes saturated in the same dark blood. It even feels different to normal blood, thicker and tackier maybe, but his knowledge of biology only just about covers ‘which bits will I die without’, so he’s not really sure.

On the other side, Clarke is taking stock of the various injuries. The Ice King’s blade is still lodged in the Commander’s - _Former Commander’s?_ \- shoulder, but all the other cuts are open and losing blood fast. “I need to get these sewn up.”

“Not yet,” Emori says. “We need to find a way to move her… I’ve got it. Here.” She bends down and unclips Lexa’s coat, stained black her with blood, and unfurls the material along the steps. Looking around, she finds two discarded spears, no doubt dropped by some of Lexa’s traitorous guards during all the exciting assassinating they were doing. Catching her drift, Octavia follows Emori’s lead and grabs one of the spears while Emori retrieves the other. As quickly as they can, the pair of them fashion a sling bed while Murphy and Clarke try and keep all the gaping holes in the Commander under control.

“Alright, now. Lift.”

Together, the four of them manage to ease Lexa onto the stretcher. “I know how to get you out of here,” Emori says as they carefully make their way down the slick steps.

“Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy, March 15th 2150**

 

Bellamy has a plan. Well, okay, he has the start of a plan. Maybe plan is an overstatement. He has a desperate hope, one last chance, and no choice.

He slips down to the jail, trying to avoid meeting anyone in the halls as he goes.

Since seeing Harper he’s been hiding out in fear that Pike will send for him to answer for himself at any moment. Through one of the Ark windows he catches a glimpse of a large bonfire raging in the centre of the camp. There seems to be some kind of commotion and gathering of people all around it. _Good_ , he thinks, _maybe it will serve as a distraction_.

He checks his watch. 20:05. The shift will have just changed. He pushes the door open with confidence.

It’s Gillmer who’s on duty. An arrogant ass who Bellamy never liked when they were training together as cadets on the Ark, and likes even less now on the ground.

“I’m at this post tonight Gillmer. You’re relieved.”

Gillmer doesn’t move. “I don’t think so.”

Over Gillmer’s shoulder Bellamy can see Lincoln and Miller rise to attention, hatred and distrust in their eyes. “Pike specifically asked me to take this shift; he wants to speak with you.”

“Well that’s weird,” Gillmer drawls and Bellamy can tell this isn’t working, “Because he specifically asked me to take this shift, and he’s definitely been asking after you all day. Where you been hiding, Blake?”

There is real menace in his voice now. _Okay then, Plan B._ Bellamy winds up and punches him hard, knocking him out cold.

The two other guards at the far end of the jail block come running. Bellamy acts fast, grabbing the keys from Gillmer’s belt and tossing them through the bars to Miller’s outstretched hands. There is surprise and astonishment in Miller’s face, but to his immense credit and Bellamy’s relief, he doesn’t skip a beat.

Bellamy picks up Gillmer’s shockstick and charges at the other guards. He doesn’t want to hurt either of them, but he can’t have either of them radioing in. He knocks the radio out from one of the guard’s hands as the other shocks him from behind. Bellamy goes down on his knees in pain. Next thing he knows Lincoln and Miller are both there taking down the guards on either side of him.

He rises, and for a moment the three of them are in a standoff, the guards unconscious at their feet. Bellamy looks at them both before saying quickly.

“It wasn’t me, you’re bugged, and whoever bugged you probably heard that. So we need to move _now_.”

There is a terrible moment of suspension that feels like an eternity, then both Lincoln and Miller clearly make the decision of believe Bellamy. Turning to the now open cell they motion to Nyko and the dozen or so weak and ailing Grounders that were once in Arkadia’s care.  

They move to the door, it’s time to run now.

 

* * *

 

**Jasper, March 15th 2150**

 

The Creepsters are up to something. Whatever it is, Jasper has a no good very bad feeling about it.

Jasper and Monty try warning Pike, but all of Pike’s council are in some kind of intense planning or strategy meeting or something. Probably deciding which army or village or daycare to wipe out next. The guards won’t let them come anywhere near the place and they are dismissed out of hand like misbehaving children. Frustrated and angry, it’s clear to Jasper that Monty is fed up with the way Pike and his mother are running things around here. As annoyed as Jasper is, he’s also relieved to have his friend back.

They find Jaha and Alie again in the centre of the camp, lighting a gigantic bonfire. Raven sits to the side of the growing fire, her eyes completely glazed over. Uh yeah, that definitely can’t be good.

“We need to get Raven away from them,” Monty says, reading Jasper’s mind. “Away from this camp if we have to.”

Jasper nods. They weren’t ready to deal with her come down the first time, and judging by the amount she has now taken, next time it will be worse. Much worse. Next time they will need to be a lot more prepared.

“How will we get her away?”

Monty opens his hand in response: a tranquilizer needle rests across his palm.

“Okay.” Jasper hops nervously in place. “So we’re doing this.”

“If you’re not ready for this, or if you don’t want to help-“

“Shut up Monty. Of course I’m in, but I don’t think the two of us are going to be able to carry her out of this camp on our own without getting stopped.”

Monty is quiet for a moment. Then he spots something at the main gate to the camp. “We just need a lift.”

Jasper turns to follow Monty’s gaze. All he can see is some guards washing and fixing up the Ark’s rovers. He’s not sure how that helps them at all unless…

He doesn’t have time to ask Monty about it, he’s already taking off on his way around the bonfire - which is now blazing five feet tall at least. Chasing after Monty, the heat of the fire presses at the side of Jasper’s face as he passes it.

Jasper watches nervously as Monty slinks up behind Raven. He’s dead silent, but in Raven’s state it hardly would have made a difference. Even as Monty sinks the needle into Raven’s neck, she barely twitches in response, before collapsing completely. Jasper moves to Monty’s side, helping him quietly lift Raven away from the back of the surrounding crowd, none of whom seemed to have noticed anything. For a moment, like an _idiot_ , he lets himself believe that maybe this won’t be so hard after all.

Then the powder hits the bonfire, and the flames in front of them turn stark white.

 _Uh oh_.

Jasper feels the moment the smoke hits the back of his throat, fills his lungs, and passes into his blood. He feels a surge of lightheadedness, the world spinning around him, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to pass out.

Then his heart stutters in his chest.

Everything is in colour.

 

* * *

 

**Lincoln**

 

As they race down the halls of the Ark, Lincoln is on high alert, suspicious of everything. He wants to trust Bellamy, but he is also no fool.

Suddenly, up ahead of them he sees white smoke pouring out of an air grate. They all halt in their tracks at the sight of it, but it is too late. Already he can feel the smoke burning at the back of his throat and in his lungs. He just has time to think that it feels like the smoke of a blekfya when suddenly the world flips on its end and colour rushes into his vision.

 _Octavia._ He starts to look around for her. She’s been swimming just at the edge of their range for days, but with colour this strong, she must have come home. Then he sees her. Standing only a few feet away - _how had he missed her before?_ \- smiling a smile so full of love that it fills him with more warmth than he thought possible.

She is there, laughing at him at the other end of the hall and he can’t help but laugh too. Everything suddenly seems so simple. So beautiful.

 

* * *

**Bellamy**

 

The return of colour is so extreme that Bellamy falls to his knees, clutching his head at the sight of it. When he looks up, shocked and trembling, his vision is filled with the sight of her. Clarke. Eyes full of a forgiveness he knows he doesn’t deserve. Bright light radiates out from her as she leans down towards him. Her fingers are feather-light against his cheek as her thumb wipes a tear from Bellamy’s cheek. Only when she does it does Bellamy realize that he’s weeping. The pain and the guilt are gone now. In their place there is only light, and hope, and absolution.

 

Clarke leans down towards him, her golden hair falling in a curtain across her face as she softly places her lips against his ear, whispering.    

 

_I forgive you._

 

* * *

 

 

**Nathan**

 

Coughing on smoke, Miller looks around and suddenly, right beside him, is Monty. Standing close at his side, Monty takes Miller’s hand in both of his and holds it tight. Miller feels a weight lift off his shoulders that he wasn’t aware he’d been carrying. He looks into Monty’s eyes and before he can figure out what’s going on, Monty is reaching up and pulling Miller down to meet him. As their lips meet and they embrace, a rush of warmth washes through Miller’s whole body. His soul sings in pleasure in a way Miller has never experienced. He hadn’t realized how much and for how long he had wanted this.

 _I love you_. Monty’s voice seems to come from everywhere, filling Miller’s mind, overwhelming him.

He wants, so badly, to drown in this, but…

Something’s not right here. Miller pulls back.

This can’t be Monty, because his Monty wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t say that. At least not like this, not now. As fucked up as everything is right now, Miller doesn’t want a new Monty. He loves his Monty just the way he is.

With effort he steps back, out of Monty’s reach, and looks around himself again. His soul aches in protest, and already he misses the bliss of a moment ago, and the feel of Monty in his arms. It’s a struggle to stay focused. Something is happening. It’s the smoke.

So that’s what the drug does. He can see why Raven was tempted by it.

He blinks, hard, and the vision of Monty vanishes. Lifting up his shirt, Miller draws the fabric across his nose and mouth to stop himself breathing in any more of the smoke. Trying to reorient himself, Miller takes stock of his surroundings and finds Bellamy a few feet away, on his knees, his eyes focused on open air.

“Bellamy!” Miller shouts. “Look at me!”

Bellamy looks up in unseeing ecstasy and Miller can see tears running down his cheeks.

“Please Bellamy! It’s not her,” he says kneeling down to his level and taking a guess at what it is Bellamy must be seeing “it’s not Clarke! You know that, you know it can’t be her. Think about it.”

Slowly Miller watches a painful fight occur behind Bellamy’s eyes.

“We will find her, the real Clarke, I promise, but right now this smoke is making us see stuff and we have to get out of here now.”

Once Miller can see the sadness return to Bellamy’s face he knows he’s back.

 

* * *

**Lincoln**

 

Octavia holds a beautiful baby boy in her arms. Beaming, she gently eases the child into Lincoln’s outstretched arms as another small child holds tightly and playfully onto his leg. A daughter. The child laughs and Lincoln feels that nothing else could possibly matter except for this.

Then for a second Nathan Miller is there.

But that’s silly. He brushes him off to the side. He has to put the children to bed now.

And here he is again. Speaking. “It’s not real! Come back to us Lincoln we need you!”

But it feels real. It feels better and more perfect than anything Lincoln has ever felt.

“That’s not Octavia!” Miller’s voice pierces through his thoughts again, “Think about it! It can’t be. The real Octavia needs your help and she needs you to stay alive right now and run!”

He looks at Octavia again. Alright, she does look cleaner and happier than he’s ever seen her. He looks down at the children. It’s true he doesn’t actually remember them having children - isn’t that something he would remember? So, it’s a vision. As soon as he has the thought, he regrets it. Fear and worry rush in to fill the place where a moment before there was only joy.

He looks around through the thick smoke surrounding him.

They need to move. The other Grounders from the prison are all dazed. There isn’t time to wake up everyone. Roughly, Lincoln pulls Nyko out of his own vision, and together they begin to herd the other Grounders like sheep towards the tunnel. Whatever this smoke is doing to them, they can't afford to stay here a moment longer.

 

* * *

 

**Jasper**

 

He knows she is there before he sees her, feels her presence behind him, and for a moment his whole body is frozen, moving in glacial slow motion as he turns around.

Maya.

Every bit as beautiful as he remembers her, she stands in the dazzling sun that she never got to see in life. All around them the world is bright, and green, and perfect.

He reaches for her tentatively and is astonished to find that she feels real, solid in his arms. He is shaking now as everything that he has tried so hard to dull and silence and forget these past few months comes pouring to the surface. He leans his forehead against hers, holding her tight.

“I am so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

_It’s okay._

Her smooth, rich voice resonates through his very soul.

“I am so sorry I couldn’t show you this world outside. You deserved so much better. So much better than me.”

_Stop. It’s not your fault._

Her words release something inside of him. A knot of tension that had been choking him for so long he almost forgot it was there.

_You did everything you could and I’m so happy you and your people survived._

“I miss you so much.”

_I’m here now._

“But- But you’re not.” Something suddenly jars in him, a sense of wrongness that goes right down to his bones. “This- this can’t be real, this isn’t real.”

Maya leans forward to whisper into Jasper’s ear and this time her voice sounds different, quiet and desperate.

_Run Jasper! You’re in danger if you stay here near this smoke any longer, and I need you to survive. I need you to live Jasper. For me. Live for me, and RUN!_

Her words hit him like a ton of bricks and blinking he sees the black and white fire in front of him once again.

 

* * *

**Monty**

 

Holy shit the matched have been living in a damn _acid trip_ this whole time? Monty doesn’t know where to look as he takes in the wide world with awestruck amazement. He feels like he’s never seen daylight before now. Monty has had people try to explain colour to him in the past, none of them ever even came close to doing it justice.

 _This is what Nathan sees whenever he’s around me,_ Monty can’t help himself from thinking. He thinks maybe he should be jealous, but instead he feels proud. Pride that he could brighten the world this much for someone.

Then, as if summoned by his thoughts, Miller is there at his side, surveying the world as well.

“It’s perfect.” And in that moment Monty feels he truly means it. That life, standing there next to Nathan, looking out at the vibrant and colourful world, is really perfect.

He turns to look into Nathan’s dark brown eyes, flecked with shades of gold that Monty never could have noticed before. He feels a pang of longing.

“Why can’t you be my match?” The question that has been tearing at his soul for months spills out of him. “I wish you were my match so bad.”  

Miller’s eyes grow sad and look away, and Monty feels the weight of that sadness land on him too. Because Miller is not Monty’s match. Which means this isn’t real. A large part of him screams that it _could_ be real. That he’s here now, right? So he might as well look around a bit, take the time to appreciate colour during this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Then he remembers Raven, and the drug, and the fire. Tempting as the colour is, he can’t allow himself to give into it. His friends need him.

As he wills the colour to melt away around him, and Nathan with it, the aching, lonely pain in his heart returns, and he wonders if he really made the right decision.    

 

* * *

**Bryan**

 

Bryan had been looking for any excuse to keep busy all day. Anything to distract him from the stabbing shock of betrayal that’s been plaguing him. Nathan hadn’t even been gone an hour after he’d been bugged before he agreed to take part in a treasonous jailbreak. Bryan wants to vomit every time he thinks about it, and then he wants to vomit again when he thinks that it’s his fault he was caught.

He’s just finished maintenance on the last of the rovers and is about to drive it back into the garage when it happens. The smoke has dissipated through the air by the time it reaches him and he breathes it in willingly, trying to figure out what the sweet smell in the air is.

Then the world explodes into colour. It’s like a bomb detonating, and it’s so shocking, so breathtaking, that for a moment Bryan’s paralyzed in shock. How could this - _who_ could this be?

He hears him before he sees him. Laughing. A sweet, melodious sound. Spinning around in circles, Bryan searches for the source of the voice. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees him.

Tall, thin, with dark hair that falls in ringlets over his face and tattoos all the way up his olive skinned arms. A Grounder. Bryan keeps moving to try and get a better look at him. It quickly becomes a game, and every time the man manages to dart out of view, always one step ahead no matter which way Bryan looks. And he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that this is his match. Then they are both laughing, it fills Bryan’s lungs and shakes his frame; he doesn’t think he’s ever laughed like this before. He wants so badly to see the man’s eyes-

“Bryan! Bryan!” A panicked voice cuts through their laughter. That’s doesn’t sound right.

“We need you! It isn’t real, wake up! WAKE UP!” The news that is isn’t real is unwelcome. But that would make sense…

He turns to try and catch one last glimpse at the man, but he’s disappeared. With an ugly shock, Bryan sees once more the depressing grey of the world and feels a gnawing pain he can’t immediately identify.

“Bryan, help us get her in the back of the rover, then you need to drive us out of here.” Monty is in front of him, carrying an unconscious Raven.

It’s such a lot to take in all at once, and Bryan’s only barely grounded in reality as it is. Unsure of what he's supposed to do, he chooses the simplest route and obeys. He follows their suit in covering his nose and mouth with a rag. He doesn’t need to be told that something weird is going on here.

Weird, but also beautiful, and wondrous, and more than a little overwhelming. But joy like that must come at a cost, and Bryan is not eager to find out what that cost might be.

It’s not until they are all inside the rover, Monty next to him in the passenger seat that he asks. “How am I supposed to just drive you out of here?”

Monty squints at the guards on either side of the main gate in front of them. “Just ram the gates, they won’t stop you, but go and do it NOW.”

Already Bryan can feel the tug of a sweet playful voice calling his name and he longs to give in, just for one more moment…

“NOW, BRYAN.”

Monty’s voice snaps him to attention and he slams his foot on the pedal.

 

* * *

**Abby**

 

Abby is standing with Kane, trying to decide what to do about Jaha when it happens.

And suddenly she couldn’t care less what Thelonious does. She is relieved of every stress and free of every worry. She melts into Marcus’s arms, and knows without a shadow of a doubt that she is safe and that everyone she loves is safe too.

She doesn’t hear as a rover smashes through the main gate of Arkadia, but then again, neither does anyone else.

 

* * *

**Harper**

 

“DON’T BREATHE THE SMOKE!” Harper hears them yelling from down the hall.

But then it hits her anyway, and she has no choice but to inhale.

Colour. _Freakin’ colour._

So _this_ is what everyone’s been going on about all this time. She’s not sure what the fuss is all about, the Ark hall still looks pretty grey to her.

She does feel an electric sense of strength, though. An unfamiliar feeling of power surges through her, and then she sees... _her_. Harper finds herself staring at the spitting image of herself. Except not.

It’s not like a mirror, this Harper in front of her is confident, strong, and _happy_ in a way Harper has only ever dreamed of. She wants to talk to this person, learn everything there is to know about this person, _be_ this person.

For the first time since she can remember, she doesn’t hate herself.

“HARPER!” The voice she heard before drags her back. And now she sees Lincoln, desperation in his eyes and a cloth covering his face, and the escaped Grounders behind him, and the smoke filling the hall around them.

She pulls open the entrance to the tunnel. It’s definitely time to leave this place.

 

* * *

 

**Pike**

 

Pike spent all day in one of the most torturous meetings of his life. What to do with the traitors, of which Bellamy Blake is now clearly one. He dislikes violence against his own people, but something clearly has to be done. Finally, it was decided that a public execution was called for to send a message. But who? And how many? They fought their way in circles for hours.

Then suddenly out of the painful hell of deciding death sentences, Pike was transported to a heaven beyond his wildest dreams.

Cynthia, his wife and soulmate returned to him, and together they lay in each other’s arms on the green grass and Pike was truly and supremely happy at last. Nothing else mattered and he resolved that nothing else could ever matter again.   

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, March 15th 2150**

 

Clarke barely remembers the journey from the steps of Polis Tower to the edge of the city. Octavia and Murphy’s unfamiliar Grounder friend had carried the stretcher, one at each end, while Murphy held pressure wherever Clarke told him to. She knows this is what they were doing, but Clarke had been oblivious to their actions. She didn’t hear anything they said, didn’t notice anything about them at all. Her attention was focused, just as it is now, entirely and completely on Lexa.

Lexa, whose hair is caked black with blood and whose skin is stark white under the layers of dirt and makeup and still more blood. Lexa, who is bleeding in so many places that Clarke is petrified she made the wrong choices, focused on the wrong injuries. Lexa, whose breath sounds wet, who has a stab wound in her back, much too close to her spine, and whose shoulder is so badly injured that she may never regain full use of that arm. Lexa, who is _still breathing._

They end up in a tunnel, some secret passage out of the city. She can’t remember now how they got down here.

“I need a med kit,” Clarke says. “I need sewing needles and rubbing alcohol and bandages. I need-” _I need my mom_.  

Octavia’s voice, short and agitated, “we don’t have any of that-”

“I do.”

At this, Clarke does finally look up, meeting Murphy’s gaze across Lexa’s body. “You do?”

Murphy’s already slinging a leather bag off his back and rifling through it. “Yeah, we uh…” He exchanges a quick glance with his Grounder companion. “We came across someone on our way to Polis who had one, thought it might be useful.”

“You stole it,” Octavia paraphrases, her tone unimpressed.

“Fine, we stole it. You want it or not?”

“Yes!” Clarke shouts, her voice ringing through the tunnel. She’s aware how she must sound, aware of the panic and the grief filling her voice, but she doesn’t care.

He hands it out to her, and Clarke immediately tears into it, separating out what she needs. “Okay, Murphy, put pressure here-” She stops when she notices that Murphy has stepped back, his expression flitting between defensive and guilty. Clarke doesn’t have time to consider it, she just returns to dressing Lexa’s remaining open wounds with the fresh bandages.

“Do you know where you will go?” The Grounder girl - Clarke still doesn’t know her name - asks quietly.

Clarke has given no thought at all to where they will go. Arkadia will never accept them, and apparently even Indra’s people have turned their back on Lexa. That question is not important, though. The _only_ thing that matters are Lexa’s injuries, and tending to them anywhere other than Polis.

“You’re not coming?” She vaguely registers Octavia asking.

Murphy fidgets awkwardly. “I mean, look, we go way back, and I like you guys and everything. You know, mostly. Except really not enough to trek through the forest with Clarke’s half-dead lover."

Octavia shrugs at this, and Clarke doesn’t have the energy to spare for insults. She’s already started cleaning the cut to Lexa’s abdomen and preparing a needle for stitching.

“We have to go, Clarke, come on.” Octavia tugs a little on the stretcher, and Clarke needs to pull away to prevent causing Lexa any accidental injury. “Once we get clear of the city, we can find somewhere to camp and I’ll help you treat her-”

“Here,” Murphy’s friend says, handing over her grip on Lexa’s stretcher to Clarke. “Good luck.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really proud of this chapter it was one of my favourites to write.
> 
> Love hearing your thoughts! xx


	18. March 16th 2150: What Happens Next

**Clarke, March 16th 2150**

 

This time yesterday, Clarke was blinking awake in a cocoon of down feather blankets and thick furs. A smooth grey sunrise had crested through the wide window in her high Polis room, Lexa’s arm thrown across her chest, Clarke’s fingers tracing the tattoos on her back. Lexa’s breath had been warm on the underside of Clarke’s jaw, her hands calloused and nimble. Just yesterday, Clarke awoke from one of the best night’s sleep she’d had since landing on Earth, full of love and a feeling of safety.

What a joke.

They journey east out of the city, but soon come upon a sharp cliff-face and are forced to head south. Every minute they spend walking is a minute Clarke doesn’t have to tend to Lexa. As they march, she’s forced to watch the dark pools of blood grow, soaking the stretcher and dripping onto the road.

“Stop!” Clarke demands, after only a mile or two, unable to wait any longer. Lexa’s breathing has grown worse, laboured and rattling. “We have to stop.”

“Clarke…” Octavia sounds like she wants to argue.

“She’ll die, Octavia! We have to stop!”

“Okay.” Octavia pauses, taking in their surroundings. Rain is falling in a misty sheet around them, chilling the air and sticking like dew drops on their hair. “Over here.”

They awkwardly maneuver themselves under a thicket of shrubs, with sharp leaves and water dripping off their spiked branches. Visibility is awful and the ground is soaked, but they’re off the main paths and unlikely to be seen by passersby, so it’ll have to do.

Clarke sets to work with a brutal efficiency. Octavia only allows them to stop long enough for Clarke to address the most life-threatening injuries. She reinflates Lexa’s left lung, terrified at first, that she’d done it wrong. But Lexa’s breathing smoothed out and returned to an even rhythm, leaving Clarke dizzy with relief. Next, she sews up a cut on Lexa’s thigh that mercifully missed the artery.  Once she’s finished patching up the worst of the other open wounds, Octavia insists they keep moving.

They travel through the night, staggering through the dark with only wan moonlight to guide them. Finally, satisfied that no one has followed them out of Polis, they find somewhere to camp. They collapse, exhausted, under an overhanging cliff, sheltered from the rain and the worst of the wind. Octavia busies herself setting a small fire and clearing a space for them to camp while Clarke remains in vigil at the head of Lexa’s stretcher, watching over her as she stirs feebly.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Clarke whispers, wishing she could smooth the lines of pain out of Lexa’s brow. “I promise.”

“How is she?” Octavia slumps down to rest on the other side of the stretcher. A smile campfire has finally caught a couple of feet away, a cannister of water already on the boil.

“She’s going to be fine,” Clarke says firmly.

The truth might be a little more complicated than that.

Now that she’s had the time to assess Lexa’s injuries properly, Clarke can see how lucky she’s been. The assassins, in their haste, cut quick and shallow for the most part. Precious few of these knives hit anything vital. Her blood also seems different somehow. Clarke can’t explain it, but her wounds have clot faster and more efficiently than any Clarke’s seen before. That’s the good news.

But it’s still touch and go. A knife remains buried deep in Lexa’s shoulder. Anything Clarke tries to do to it would be worse than leaving it until they’re somewhere with a real doctor and real medical supplies… whenever and wherever that might be. There’s also nothing Clarke can do for the wound in Lexa’s back, since she’s unwilling to risk turning her over in this state.

That leaves them with the biggest problem: blood loss.

“What’s your blood type?”

Octavia, who had been nodding off against the rock wall, flinches and opens her eyes. “What?”

“Your blood type,” Clarke repeats.

Octavia hesitates, looking down at Lexa.

“You don’t know it?” Clarke prompts.

“It’s not that,” Octavia says cautiously. “I mean, I don’t, but that’s not the point.”

“Then what-?”

“Well, I don’t think she’d accept any blood transfusions, with blood like that.”

Clarke blinks at her. “What do you mean?”

“It’s… Clarke, it’s _black._ Can’t you tell?”

Now that Octavia’s said it, Clarke supposes she should have noticed. She’s seen plenty of blood without colour, and this is noticeably darker, sleek and glossy. “You’re sure?” she asks slowly.

“Uh, yeah, I’m sure.”

Clarke nods, though has no idea what to do with this information. She’s wracking her brains, but has no memory of her mom or Jackson ever mentioning black blood before. What does it mean? How is that even possible?

Her thoughts are brutally cut off as Lexa goes terrifyingly still under her hands. _Oh god._ “No,” Clarke says. “I’ve done… I’ve done everything, this shouldn’t…”

Even as she feels herself panicking, her hands have taken over from her mind, working rhythmically through the CPR she’s known how to do since she was a child. _Don’t die,_ _don’t die,_ _don’t die,_ her mind repeats it like a mantra as she pounds against Lexa’s stopped heart.

“What can I do?” Octavia asks. She’s gone white, but her hands are steady and her eyes are focused.

“In the med kit,” Clarke manages between compressions. “There’s a shot of adrenaline.”

Octavia retrieves it quickly and hands it over. Clarke hesitates a moment, the syringe prepped over Lexa’s heart. God, what if she’s wrong? What if this won’t work? What would her mom do?

With no other option, Clarke slams the needle home.

The effect is immediate. Even as Clarke’s still withdrawing the needle, Lexa has let out a gasping breath, her heart thudding in her ribs. Clarke collapses back in relief, taking a moment to rest against the rocks. She accepts a flask of water when Octavia presses it into her hands.

“Well done,” she murmurs.

Clarke wishes she could accept the congratulations. “It’s not over yet. We need to get her some real medical attention. Somewhere they can remove the knife in her shoulder, address the wound on her back, give her blood and fluids…If we can’t get her somewhere safe...”

“I might have an idea about that,” Octavia says softly.

Clarke looks up at her, barely allowing herself to hope.

“Ages ago, after the battle at the dropship, Lincoln told me about someone...” Octavia trails off, her eyes landing on the cut at Lexa’s neck. “Oh my god, look!”

Clarke looks. The blood now trickling down Lexa’s neck, towards her collarbone, looks lighter than the dark blood that’s already dried on her skin.

“It’s red,” Octavia says, sounding stunned.

“Why-?” Clarke can’t manage to finish the thought.

Octavia looks as nonplussed as Clarke. “What if when she died…?”

“You think something happened to her? What would make someone’s blood change like that?”

“I have no idea, Clarke, you’re the doctor, I’m just saying…”

Clarke’s not a doctor, not really, and she has no idea what’s happened to Lexa. What she does know is that if they don’t find somewhere safe, and soon, she’ll die, no matter what colour her blood is.

“We don’t have time for this,” she says, mostly because if she keep thinking about it she’s going to lose her mind with questions she has no answers to. “Do you know the way to Lincoln’s safe haven?”

Octavia considers, looking around. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy, March 16th 2150**

 

The tunnel is long and dark, and it’s slow going to get everyone out. They spend most of the night edging their way along on their hands and knees. By the time they emerge into the fresh air at the other end of the tunnel, the sun is starting to peek over the horizon.

The draw of the smoke has weighed heavy on Bellamy all night. He still feels the pull of it, drawing him towards the light, towards that vision of Clarke, and it is exhausting to resist. Two thoughts are at war in his mind as he struggles through the tunnel: first, that he will do everything he can to one day become worthy of her forgiveness; and second, that he knows, with absolute certainty, that he is _not_ that man. He feels this second thought like a vicious, pounding headache, suffocating all other thought. _He is not worthy of her_ it keeps insisting, _and he probably never will be._

The reality of who he knows himself to be against who he briefly saw himself as with her in the smoke, sends frustrated anger coursing through his veins. He feels the tension growing throughout his body, begging for release.

They move towards the river now. As they near it, they see a rover parked up ahead. They all halt in their tracks, edging carefully towards the back of it. All except Miller, who strides ahead without hesitation.

“It’s okay, it’s friends.”

“How do you know?” Lincoln’s voice is hard, already gearing up for a fight.

“Doesn’t matter how,” Miller responds with equal force.    

Miller marches ahead, and Bellamy falls in close behind. _Monty,_ he thinks, _that’s how Miller knows._

Sure enough, as they reach the rover, Monty leaps out of the passenger seat and moves to greet them. A moment later, Bryan and Jasper appear from the other side of the rover.

“Nathan! What’re you doing here!” Bryan says immediately, relief and surprise clearly painted on his face. He moves towards Miller but Miller steps back.

“We broke out, no thanks to you,” Miller looks torn between hurt and anger.

“I thought you-“ Bryan breaks off quickly. He catches sight of Bellamy, Harper and Lincoln, along with Nyko and the other escaped Grounders as they all reach the rover. Then, moving fast, he grabs for Miller’s jacket and yanks it off of him. Miller yells mildly in protest, but then is struck dumb as Bryan reaches into the lining and pulls out a small circular bug and throws it into the river.

For a second no one does anything. Then all hell breaks lose. Miller grabs Bryan by the collar of his jacket and pushes him up against the rover. All of their voices yell over top of one another.

“YOU BUGGED ME!”

“YOU TURNED TRAITOR! YOU BROKE THEM OUT OF JAIL!”

“THEY DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!!”

“BASTARD!”

“ASSHOLE!”

“TRAITOR!”

“Oh my god, _ENOUGH ALREADY.”_ Monty’s voice rises above the rest, uncharacteristically forceful, and grabs their attention.

“Everyone, calm down,” he commands. Monty’s voice is clipped and hard and it doesn’t sound to Bellamy like he’s all that calm himself. “We are all still coming down off of Alie’s drug. We have to stay in control-”

“Oh yeah, did the drug make him PLANT A FUCKING BUG ON ME?”

 _“Who_ has drugged us?” Nyko interrupts from the back, where he’s been shepherding the still-high Grounders. “Was that white smoke poisoned?”

“Poison?!” Harper cuts in, her voice high and thready. “Have we been poisoned? _Are we dying?”_

“No one is dying,” Monty snaps, glaring at her. “Pay attention.”

“Ooookay,” Jasper steps up, putting a gentle hand on Monty’s shoulder. He turns to Harper. “That woman who returned with Jaha, her name is Alie. She has this drug that she’s been pushing on everyone, says it lets everyone see in colour and grants you perfect happiness, or whatever. She calls it the City of Light.” Jasper addresses them all, his voice much calmer than anyone else in the circle. “Catch is, it makes you a walking zombie while you’re hallucinating and then the come down is a _real_ bitch. Turns you violent, aggressive, mean, it’s probably everything you’re not feeling while you’re high. Anyway, it’s addictive as hell and dangerous. I guess they got tired of feeding the drug to us one at a time though, so boom, they hotboxed the camp instead.”

“And so you guys ran away from the smoke?” Bellamy asks. He still feels a burning, boiling rage that he doesn’t know what to do with. He still hears that voice, drilling in his head all the ways he isn’t good enough. _It’s just the drug,_ he realizes, though that doesn’t really help to dissipate it.  

“We, well… uh, yes. But also because of Raven.”

“Wha-” The question doesn’t have time to form on his lips before Monty is turning towards the rover, pulling open the back doors to reveal Raven lying on the floor, unconscious.

“Raven was one of the first to willingly take the drug in its pure powder form,” Monty takes over again, “we watched her. She was high for well over a day.” Bellamy remembers vividly, watching Raven wandering the Ark the morning of the mission to the village. He feels a fresh wave of self-loathing at not having been able to take care of her, not doing anything for her.

“Then she came down off the drug and that’s when things really got ugly,” Jasper continues. “She was vicious, and she found her way to more drugs instantly. We think she took way too much the second time. Soon she’s going to have to come down again, and we need to find a way to help her when she does.”

“Did she take so much she just passed out?” Harper hovers over Raven, nervously inspecting her and checking her pulse.

“Obviously not,” Monty tsks in irritation. “We tranq-ed her, figured she’d be easier to move that way. It’s not like we anticipated we’d have to run away while also fighting the effects of the drug ourselves!”

Jasper puts his hand back on Monty’s shoulder. “Chill, man, come on. That’s the drug talking.” Monty glares at Jasper, but makes no move to shrug out of his grip.

“You were exposed to the drug too,” Bellamy points out to Jasper, “how come you’re so calm?” He knows he sounds accusatory, but he can’t help the surge of irritation he feels. They’re all suffering, why should Jasper be so above it all?

Jasper shrugs, his smile almost self-deprecating. “Dunno, really. I guess… well, the drug showed you perfect happiness, right? And the come down sucks so hard because it reminds you of how shitty and alone and furious you are. Thing is, I’m pretty used to those feelings by now. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m still devastated. I still miss Maya like a hole in my chest, and I still have a lot of self-directed rage, but that’s nothing new. I guess I just have a bit more practice at dealing with it.”

A brief silence falls over the group as they process this. _Perfect happiness._ Visions of what they most want in the world, that’s what they all chose to run away from. No wonder they’re crawling out of their skin now. The real world is pretty depressing to come back to once you’ve experienced your heart’s desire.

“We need to keep moving.” Miller says, breaking the moment of contemplation. He’s let go of Bryan now and moved to the other side of the circle. He seems determined to look anywhere but at him.

“Are they coming for us?” Harper’s eyes are darting around the forest, anxious and edgy.

“I doubt it,” Jasper tells her, “not if they’re all enjoying absolute bliss back there.”

“We need to help them,” Bryan exclaims.

“Oh yeah, what do you propose, genius?” Miller snaps.

“Why are none of you listening?” Monty’s voice is dripping with condescension, and Bellamy feels another sharp flare of resentment. “First, we need to help Raven. We can’t help Arkadia when we don’t know how to treat the addiction. Once we know how to handle the effects, then we can go back to Arkadia and help everyone.”

“Okay, so how do we do that?” Harper presses.

Bellamy turns Lincoln, “do you know anyone who might know about these kinds of drugs?”

Lincoln grimaces. He looks wrung out and irritable, but holding together better than a lot of them against the effects of the drug. “The only person I can think of that might know would be Luna,” Lincoln tells him, “but this seems beyond her dealings. Besides, even if she could help, and that’s no guarantee, she may well not want to help you.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty short on friends these days,” Bellamy agrees. _And whose fault is that?_ asks the loathsome voice in his head. He ignores it. “But whatever the odds, we’ll have to try.”

It helps to have a goal, something to focus on, somewhere to channel the churning, directionless anger burning through his brain.

Gradually, there are nods from the group. Maybe they’re feeling the same thing, the same need to _do_ something.

“Can you take us to her?” Bellamy asks.

Lincoln hesitates, but only for a moment. “I can, yes.”

An agreement passes between Bellamy and Lincoln. Bellamy grieves the damage he knows he’s done to their friendship, but in Lincoln’s eyes he sees the beginnings of an understanding. Maybe one day that can be built back up into trust once more.

“Wait, so our plan is to just let him lead us off to some Grounder we’ve never heard of? How do we know it isn’t a trap?”

Everyone around the circle bristles at Bryan’s words.

“We _know_ because Lincoln is one of us. If you don’t like it, you can go.” Miller’s words have a cutting finality to them.

“All I’m saying is-”

“I trust him a helluva lot more than I trust you.”

“Oh I know you don’t trust me! IF YOU HAD-”

“WAS I WRONG?”

This time Bellamy intervenes, standing in front of Miller and stopping his advance on Bryan.

“Fuck’s sake, shut _up!_ ” Monty snaps.

“Everyone’s a little… tense,” Jasper hedges, looking around the circle with his sharp, clear eyes. “Remember your emotions are messed up from the drug. You’re just going to say something you’ll regret.”

“I haven’t said anything I regret,” Bryan replies coldly.

“All I’ve said are things I regret not saying a long time ago.”

“Still,” Bellamy says to Miller as he holds him by his shoulders, “we need you to focus, we don’t have time for this.”

Miller meets his eye and nods. Bellamy understands his rage though. For himself, Bellamy feels a strong desire to punch something - the tension inside of him is aching from the strain of trying to hold himself together.

“Miller’s right about one thing: we are going with Lincoln’s plan to find help for Raven. Anyone who doesn’t like that can leave, but leave now.” His words are for Bryan, but he addresses the group. “We also need to get these Grounders to safety. Lincoln, Nyko, is there somewhere you know that you can take them?”

“I know a safe place.” Nyko speaks up. His expression is pained, but alert. “I will take them, and care for them myself. But I will not tell you where we are going.” He eyes Bryan with loathing as he says this, his tone leaving no room for debate.

“Understood.”

He and Nyko exchange a stiff nod before Nyko turns and shepherds his small flock away into the depths of the forest. Bellamy watches them go, wishing he could offer more help. At this point, though, he doubts Nyko would accept as much as a cough drop from the Sky People.

“Alright, Lincoln,” Bellamy says at last. “Lead the way.” When Bryan opens his mouth again, Bellamy cuts him off at the pass. _“Then_ , once we find out how to help Raven, we’ll return to Arkadia and help the rest of them off the drug as well.”

“How, though?” Harper asks, a quavering note of panic in her voice. “The camp’s overrun.”

“I don’t know.” He looks around at the faces of his people. The Hundred. “But I do know there has been enough death. There has to be another way out of this, and we will find it. Those are our people we left back there, and we have to find a way to save them. All of them. All in favour?”

“Aye,” Miller responds immediately.

“Obviously.”

“I’m in.”

“Yeah.”

“Yes.” Around the circle from Monty, Jasper, Harper and Lincoln. All heads turn to Bryan.

He nods.

A breath of relief. It is decided. They are on their way to Luna.

 

 


	19. March 17th 2150: The Spirit of the Commander

**Murphy, March 17th 2150**

 

Dark blood stains are still visible on the steps of the Tower, though someone has clearly gone to some effort to scrub them clean. Murphy wonders who’s sorry job that was and how they landed that particular gig. 

As though sensing his mind on a tangent, Emori digs her elbow into his ribs. He winces, curling in on himself. “Ow!”

“Pay attention,” she hisses in a low whisper. 

All around them, the thick press of the crowd has gone silent. The main square is fit to bursting, the entire city has turned up for this thing. But there's not even a whisper of noise as every one of them stands at attention, gazing up to the top of the steps.

Murphy has to suppress a shudder of deja vu as a stream of people emerge from the Tower. Unlike at the petitioning-turned-assassination two days ago, though, everyone on the steps is completely unarmed. Even in the crisp spring day, they’re all stripped down to plain brown tunics and leather pants, their sleeves rolled back and forearms laid bare. They look so normal like this. Less like the figures that stalked Murphy’s nightmares for months, and more like just… people. 

This time, instead of filing in a line across the top step, Murphy watches as the twelve ascendants form a perfect circle in the centre at the top of the stairs. In unison, every one of them raise their hands, palms up in the middle of the circle, their fingers just brushing each others’, as though taking part in some kind of weird group prayer. As one, they take up a high, melodious chant.

_ “Hofli Keryon kom Heda na sad ai op.” _ Their voices carry like an ethereal chorus across the crowd.

Murphy should really start taking some night classes or something if he wants to stop having Emori translate for him. 

“What are they doing?” he asks, leaning down to whisper into Emori’s ear. “It looks like they’re praying.”

“I suppose they are,” she replies, “though we would not call it that. They are entreating the spirit of the Commander to pick them as the new vessel.”

“How does the spirit pick anything? Anyway, shouldn’t Lexa’s ghost be pissed that they murdered her?”

“It doesn’t work like that. The vessels are nothing, they work in the service of the spirit that runs through their veins while they are Commander.”

“Tell that to the last vessel.”

Emori elbows him again. “Shut up, unless you want to get us expelled from the ceremony. The conclave must be conducted in silence.”

“So, Lexa’s ghost can hear us?!”

_ “Shh!” _

She slaps her good hand over his mouth. Murphy composes himself and gives her what he hopes is a beguiling look. Apparently satisfied, Emori removes her hand and allows him to loop an arm around her shoulder affectionately. 

They both resume watching the group of twelve people chanting up to the sky. They’re a diverse bunch: one representative from each of the twelve Clans, according to Emori. There seems to be an even split, as far as Murphy can tell, between men and women in the circle. He finds himself fascinated by their hands, just barely touching, in the centre of the circle. They’re old and young, tanned or dark or chapped red with the cold. They’re tattooed or calloused or unblemished.  

The youngest of the conclave looks about ten, a sheen of nervous sweat across his dark brown forehead. He’s just a kid, but he already has one of those multi-coloured tattoos, a design of a bird in flight, stretching its wings across one side of the boy’s shaved head. The intricate beauty of the colourful design must be wasted on so many of them, maybe the kid included, but Murphy supposes the colourful tattoos must be a feature of one particular Clan, some element of their culture - he makes a mental note to ask Emori about it. Beside the boy stands a much older woman, her fingers thin and long and gnarled at the knuckles with age. Her sun-spotted hands tremble, just slightly, as she holds them up in prayer.

Of the twelve, Murphy keeps finding his gaze drawn back to one of them in particular: a woman, slender and sinewy, her back is mostly to him, but Murphy can still make out the smooth line of her milk white arms, and the firm set of her muscled shoulders. Most striking of all is her electric-blonde hair, wrapped up in a complicated twist of braids, piled into a bun on top of her head. From among her hair, violet flowers glow like fireflies, illuminating her figure and creating a striking halo of purple light.

Catching him staring, Emori leans over, and - despite her previous warning - whispers to him. “She’s a princess of the Glowing Forest. Cinna, I think her name is.”

“She’s beautiful,” Murphy replies without thinking. 

He casts Emori an apologetic glance, but she is just nodding her agreement. “She is. The Glowing Forest Clan do not venture north very often. Most people only ever catch a glimpse of them at events such as these, when representatives from all Clans are required.”

“How are the ascendants chosen?” Murphy asks her, careful to keep his voice low.

Emori gives him a half-smile. “A good question. Each Clan does it differently. In the  _ Sankru _ our King picks his favourite son or daughter. That’s her there,” Emori indicates surreptitiously to a burley, stern-faced girl about Emori’s age, a vein in the girl’s neck pulsing as she sends her supplication skyward. “Other clans elect their candidate for ascension through a vote. Some stage battles to the death. Rumour has it in the  _ Podakru _ the Queen simply picks the first person she sees in the village and sends them.”  

“Wait.” A thought occurs to him. “The Clans did all of this in the last two days?”

“Of course not.” She frowns at him as though this was a particularly stupid question. “Clans select a new ascendant each year in preparation for a possible conclave. At the summer solstice there is a feast to celebrate-”

_ “Taim don kom op!” _

_ “Taim don kom op!” _

A pair of voices ring out as one from the top of the steps, silencing Emori and bringing an end to the ascendants’ prayers. Two figures, a woman with dark brown dreadlocks and crows feet around her eyes, and a man with a mane of fire-red hair that falls around his shoulders, take up a position at the top of the circle. Both dressed in identical cloth robes of red and black, they step forward to flank the circle. The man strides clockwise along the side of the circle, pausing a quarter of the way down. The woman mirrors his movement, walking counterclockwise around the circle.

In unison, the pair of them withdraw thin clean blades from their robes, which flash in the sun. Murphy flinches back instinctively.

“It’s okay,” Emori whispers, her hand warm in between his shoulder blades. “It’s a part of the ascension. The  _ Fleimkepa _ must test the blood of the candidates. Each of the ascendants receive a sample of the blood from the first Commander. If their blood turns black, it means the spirit has passed to them, and they are the new Commander.”

“What??”

“Watch.”

He does. The first to be tested is the boy with the bird tattoo. He turns to face the female Flamekeeper. In silence, the woman uses her blade to cut a shallow line from the inside of the boy’s elbow to the edge of his wrist. The boy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t let out any cry at all. As the cut flows freely with crimson blood, the  _ Fleimkepa _ withdraws a vial of black liquid from the inside folds of her robe. Gently, she unstops the vial and allows a single drop of the black blood to land on the boy’s open cut. 

Nothing happens. 

The cut continues to bleed red as the boy remains standing, his back to the rest of the circle now. 

“He does not carry the flame!” The Flamekeeper proclaims to the watching crowd.

Murphy thinks he sees the kid let out a sigh of relief. 

One by one, each ascendant undergoes the same process. First the woman will test one candidate, and then the man will test another. Each time, the crowd holds their breath, each time the cuts continue to bleed red, and each time one or other of the flamekeepers will declare, in high, clear voices that, “They do not carry the flame!” The pair move around the circle as the crowd watches in perfect silence. 

Or, nearly perfect. “Bit ironic, a whole ceremony that revolves around someone’s blood changing colour in a society full of colour-blind people. Is everyone just supposed to take it on faith-”

“That’s what the  _ Fleimkepa  _ are for,” Emori interrupts, nodding at the man and woman. “They are _ keryon-ai.” _

“They’re matched to each other?”

Emori nods. “They are the flamekeepers, a matched pair with the soul-sight. It is their job to judge the ascension and proclaim the new Commander.”

They lapse into silence again. Murphy watches as the old woman is tested, her blood dripping red and unaffected down her wrinkled wrist. “She does not carry the flame!”

“What happens if no one’s blood turns black?” Murphy hisses into Emori’s ear.

_ “Shut up.” _

“But-”

“If the Commander’s spirit chooses no one, they do the process again, each Clan needing to select a new ascendant.”

“What if more than one of them has their blood turn black?”

“John-”

“What would happen?”

“It’s never happened before!”

“But if it did-”

“Then the ascendants would need to fight to the death,” Emori hisses in a rushed whisper. “There can only be one Commander at a time.”

“What about Lexa? She was still alive when we-”

Emori stamps down, hard, on his foot. 

Murphy is about to reciprocate when a commotion breaks out on the steps. 

Looking up, he sees the exact moment it happens, as the blood on the woman’s arm shifts completely from red to black. 

“She carries the flame!”

“She carries the flame!”

“She carries the flame!”

The cry catches and spreads like wildfire through the crowd until it fills the air.

Princess Cinna of the Glowing Forest, with radioactive flowers in her hair, is bleeding jet-black blood onto the steps of Polis Tower. 

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy, March 17th 2150**

 

“This is as close as I can get the rover.”

“We’ll have to go the rest of the way down to the beach on foot.”

A wave of relief washes over Bellamy at Lincoln’s words. It will be good to get out of this rover. They’ve been traveling for well over a day now – stopping only briefly to rest and camp when it got too dark to keep driving – and while the tension that gripped Bellamy and the others since leaving the smoke has noticeably lessened, it has not been the most pleasant of journeys. The effects of the drug have worn off, slowly, over the course of the night, but Bellamy feels like it dragged its nails across his brain on its way out. From the looks of it, everyone else feels as shitty as he feels. Bellamy has watched through his mirror as Harper, Jasper, Monty, Miller, and Bryan all sat crammed on the benches at the back, Raven asleep on the floor between them. All of them are edgy and most of them are refusing to look at each other.

Right at the top of their long list of problems is Raven. Currently, she’s still asleep, but she’s been stirring fitfully for the past hour, and soon she will wake up. None of them have a clue what to do when that happens. For now, they can only take it one step at a time. Miller and Jasper work together to fashion a stretcher to carry her down to the beach. Bellamy’s only hope is that they can reach this Luna in time and she is somehow able to help. 

Lincoln sets off through the thick brush, and Bellamy follows close behind, watching as the others fall in line.

After a moment Lincoln pulls up next to Bellamy as they walk.

“Octavia’s getting closer.”

“What?” Anxiety and guilt fill him afresh at the thought of his sister, and how badly he disappointed and betrayed her. “Is she following us?”

“I don’t think so…” Lincoln considers slowly, “It’s been too inconsistent for that. I just wish I knew what she’s been up to.”

“I thought she went back to Polis with Clarke?” Bellamy asks, realizing for the first time that this might not be true.

“She didn’t.” Miller has moved up beside them. “Kane gave her a radio when she left, she was keeping an eye on things from the outside.”

Suddenly something clicks in Bellamy’s mind. “She’s the one who warned the village we were coming.”

“Um, yeah. After that she went radio silent.” Miller admits a little awkwardly, “I have no idea where she is now.”

“Well, I’m fairly sure she is already at the beach.”

This should be good news. They should all be relieved, but something about this doesn’t feel right. Something else must be going on here and Bellamy doesn’t think he can take much more. All three of them pull out their weapons in silence. Bellamy can’t shake the feeling like they’re about to walk into a trap. 

As they break through the treeline and emerge onto the beach, the scene that greets them is not what Bellamy had been expecting. Two figures, instantly familiar, are crouched over a third, lying sprawled on the ground. With a lurch Bellamy’s gaze latches, irresistibly, onto her: a beacon of colour in an otherwise grey world. Both women - his sister and his match - look up at the sound of arriving footsteps in the sand. Octavia leaps up and is in Lincoln’s arms in a matter of seconds, shouting to him in rapid, fluent Trigedasleng, but Clarke doesn’t move. She holds his gaze as he approaches and Bellamy wonders helplessly if he’ll ever be able to find words good enough to apologize to her. He moves close, but it’s not close enough for the colour to return to the world around them. Not anymore. She’s still the only thing in colour and now Bellamy is closer he can see that her eyes are bloodshot and red from crying. Panic and fear grip him at the sight. Then he realizes who the person on the ground is. It’s Lexa, wrapped tightly in blood-soaked bandages, she lies between them, still as death.    

Octavia has fallen back into English and  is demanding to be filled in, but it’s clear they all have stories that could take hours to tell. And none of them have time to tell them.

“Not now,” Lincoln says instead. “Quickly, we need to light a fire - it’s the only way to call for Luna.”

“That’s what we’re trying to do too,” Octavia exclaims, motioning to a small campfire that’s already burning at one end of the beach.

“It will need to be bigger. And we need to find  _ pienka _ branches, lots of them. Enough to make the smoke burn green. Lincoln motions for Octavia, “help me look, they are new growth branches with long needles, and most recognizable by their very pale and distinctive green colour.”

Lincoln and Octavia move off quickly towards the top of the beach, following the edge of the forest northwards.

“I’ll collect more firewood,” Monty pipes up, “Miller can you help me carry it?”

Bellamy clocks Miller’s brief look of stunned surprise at the offer, before he follows Monty off towards the trees in the opposite direction as Lincoln and Octavia.

Bryan and Jasper have placed Raven down near the fire and are starting to tend to it, building it carefully up to twice the height. Harper starts collecting scrap wood from around the beach.

Bellamy feels himself rooted to the spot. He looks back at Clarke and he can tell she wants to ask what happened, but he can’t lay that all on her right now, so he asks first.

“What happened?”

“They betrayed her.” Clarke’s voice is a hoarse whisper. “All of them. She did everything to protect me, to protect us, and they betrayed her for it.”

On the ground, Lexa lets out the faintest groan and instantly Clarke is cradling her head in her hands, whispering soothing words to her. She grabs for her flask of water, gently tipping the cannister to Lexa’s lips. There is such careful attention in her movements as she wipes a beat of dripping water from the corner of Lexa’s lips, such love in her eyes as she strokes the side of Lexa’s face, that Bellamy feels compelled to look away and give them what little privacy he can.

Before long Octavia and Lincoln return with armfuls of needled branches and start to add them to the fire. Monty and Miller also return a few minutes later with a considerable amount of the same branches. As they add their piles to the fire, the flames leaps and spark. It seems like something’s changing within the fire too.

“Luna, she’ll be able to see this?” Octavia turns to Lincoln beside her.

“Her  _ keryon-ai _ is usually on watch, he’s the one who came up with this method of signaling. I can see now why he’s always said it’s the most effective.”

Bellamy won’t ask, but he understands the fire must be changing colour as it sparks.

“How long will it take them to answer?” Harper asks.

“I’m afraid the question isn’t ‘how long’, it’s ‘if’.” 

“You mean they might just ignore us? Leave us here with nothing?” Jasper is glancing nervously at Raven like she’s a ticking time bomb.

“They can’t,” Clarke says, hard and determined from her position on the sand. “They- They have to help.”

“They will,” Monty cuts in gently, looking from Jasper to Clarke. “This is still our best and only option, So we’ll wait. However long it takes.”

They settle down on the cold wet sand of the beach. Lexa seems to be out of immediate danger and Bellamy can tell Clarke’s attention is coming back to the group around her, though her hand never leaves Lexa’s. 

It’s time. He needs to explain everything to her. How they all got here, what happened in Arkadia. But he’s paralyzed by nerves. Where is he supposed to begin? How is he supposed to explain everything that’s happened to them?

“Look there!” Miller cries.

Sure enough, there is a disturbance in the water. Something is rising up from beneath the waves, approaching fast, and growing larger as it nears the shore. They stand in apprehension.

Out of the water emerges a large metal cylinder. It looks like a spaceship. As it comes to a halt by the beach, a hatch on the top opens and a woman leaps out, landing smoothly in the ankle-deep waves. As she moves towards them, she’s followed by two others who pull themselves up from the ship’s hatch and join her on the shore. The three of them all wear loose-fitting woven garments, tied up in a knotted weave. The woman in front reaches the beach first, surveying them all with kind, but piercing eyes.

Lincoln moves to greet her, and a smile creeps over her face at the sight of him.

“Lincoln  _ kom Trikru, _ my tender-hearted friend, are you ready for peace at last?” She grips his arm in a warm greeting.

“I wish that were true Luna _ , ai lukot, _ but my fight is not yet over.”

“Then why have you called us to the shore? Who are these people you have brought to me?”

Clarke rushes up before Lincoln can respond.

“Luna, please you have to help her, it’s the Commander, it’s Lexa!”

Luna swiftly follows Clarke back to where Lexa lies. She kneels gracefully by Lexa’s side, assessing her injuries.

Lexa mumbles something that Bellamy doesn’t catch and Luna whispers back to her in their own language. An understanding seems to pass between the two women.

“They turned against their own Commander,” Clarke’s voice has found some of its old gravitas now, “we need to get her better so we can take back Polis and make every one of those traitors pay.”

“No.” Luna’s voice is calm and has an almost soothing quality. For someone who looks so young, Bellamy can’t help feeling that Luna has a wisdom that’s beyond  the rest of them.

“You- you won’t help her?” Clarke stutters.

“I will help her. She has agreed to accept my protection and journey with me to our haven. But there will be no retaking of Polis.”

“She’s the rightful Commander!”

“No,” Luna repeats gently, “She is not. Her blood runs red. The spirit of the Commander has left her. It will have found a new vessel by now. That is our way.”

“We can’t just do nothing!”

“My people and I are not one of the twelve Clans. Their politics do not concern us, nor will we get involved.”

“But-“

“Clarke,” Lexa croaks from the ground as Clarke bends down to her, “she’s right. The Spirit is gone. I can feel it.”

Clarke’s protest is drowned out by a horrible, keening scream that fills the air and turns Bellamy’s blood to ice. 

Raven is awake.

Bryan and Jasper are closest, both rushing to grab hold of her on either side as she staggers to her feet.

“WHERE ARE THEY?” Her voice sounds distorted, nothing like Raven’s real voice.

“Easy, Raven,” Monty says, trying to calm her.

“I NEED IT.”

“Just try to breathe Raven.” Monty slowly moves towards her.

She is struggling like a wild animal against Bryan and Jasper’s grip.

“Please Luna - our friend, she’s sick - is there anything you can do?” Bellamy turns to Luna, but her face is full of shocked astonishment and immediately Bellamy has the sinking feeling that she will be no help at all.

“Bellamy, what is going on?” Clarke demands, looking horrified.

“GIVE IT TO ME.” There’s a desperate edge to Raven’s altered voice now.

“It’s a drug,” Bellamy tries to explain quickly, over Raven’s terrible screams. “Jaha and this woman brought it into camp. It makes you hallucinate, seeing yourself perfectly happy - even seeing colour - but when it wears off you feel all of your pain and anxiety ten times more.” 

“Raven,” Monty continues, “We don’t have the drug. There is no more of the drug left.”

Raven’s eyes go wide on hearing this, and for a split second there is utter stillness in the air. Then, moving lightning fast, Raven slithers her right arm out of Jasper’s hold and lashes out to wrap her hand like a vice around Monty’s neck.

Cries erupt from all around. Chaos reigns as everyone tries to free Monty from Raven’s choking grip.

“Raven!”

“STOP!”

“LET GO!”

_ Thwack! _ A heavy thud reverberates across the beach. Miller has brought a piece of wood down across the back of Raven’s head and she crumples to the ground, out cold.

“Are you alright?” Miller asks Monty, who’s still coughing and gasping as he nods.

“We need rope,” Jasper demands of the group. “We need to tie her up now while we can.”

Luna motions to her two companions and they produce a coil of long, thin rope from within the folds of their garments. They go to Raven and help Bryan and Jasper secure her. 

“I’m afraid I cannot take your friend with me.”

“Please,” Bellamy protests, “we don’t know what else we can do.”

“It’s clear she has a difficult road ahead of her, and for that I sympathize greatly, but I cannot take anyone with me against their will. It is clear that she is not ready to accept my help.”

So there it is. They’re still no closer to helping Raven. Disappointment sweeps, dark and bitter, through Bellamy’s chest.

“Lexa, though, is ready.” Luna turns again to her companions, “Help her into the  _ subrane.” _

“I’m coming too,” Clarke insists quickly.

Luna looks her up and down for a moment before responding. “That is your choice. A choice which extends to all of you.” Luna turns to speak to the group as a whole. “I will accept anyone seeking sanctuary, but know that this is not a decision to be taken lightly as it is one that is not reversible. If you come with me, then you come to stay.”   __

Clarke drops back down to Lexa’s side. “I won't just leave you like this, Lexa.”

Bellamy’s heart has already turned to lead inside his chest at the thought of Clarke leaving them forever. He wants to protest, but what right would he have to ask that of her? After everything he’s done, he couldn’t blame her for leaving him. 

“You can’t go, Clarke.” In surprise, Bellamy turns to see Monty speaking, determined and steadfast. A dark bruise is already forming around his neck. “Raven’s not the only one infected with that drug. They drugged the whole camp. We were all exposed and just barely made it out. We had pretty much the smallest dose possible and the come down was still… not fun. After this much exposure, they won’t be able to free themselves without our help.” 

“Everyone?” Clarke asks, looking to Bellamy for confirmation. “My mom?”

“Everyone,” agrees Bellamy slowly. Weighing his words carefully, he confesses, “Clarke, we need you.” 

He can see the choice working behind her eyes. He's not so estranged from her that he can't still recognize her thought process, can't still read her emotions with painful clarity. He knows the moment she makes her decision.

“I have to stay.” Her eyes fill with sparkling tears at the prospect of saying goodbye.

Bellamy looks away, wishing he could offer them more privacy. He finds he is not jealous of Lexa, or Clarke’s love for her. Why shouldn’t she love her? 

“Lexa, I'm so sorry-”

“There is no need. You are right to stay. Clarke, I have fought my whole life, and I lost. I lost everyone I ever cared about,” Lexa is saying, her voice cracked and whispering.

“You still have me.” Clarke’s own voice is thick with tears.

“Yes. I do, and for that I am very grateful. You will be in my heart always, but my fight is over. Yours is not. Take care of your people, I hope you find the peace you seek. May we meet again, Clarke Griffin.”

“May we meet again.”  

Bellamy turns back as Luna and her companions carry Lexa into their ship. He watches Clarke as she smiles a watery goodbye, her hand raising in a weak, abortive wave. He wishes more than anything that he could offer her any kind of support or relief from her pain. Any comfort at all. But he can’t even offer her colour anymore. He feels his soul reach out to her. 

And as he stands there, wanting nothing in return, just to be there for her in whatever way she needs, he is surprised to see that - at this close distance at least - the world starts to come back into colour. 

 

* * *

 

**Jasper March 17th, 2150**

 

They watch Luna’s ship disappear back into the water all feeling pretty shit about themselves if they’re being honest. Great that Lexa’s getting help and all, but sucks that she’s no longer Commander apparently, and obviously it’s rough that Clarke doesn’t get to see her new girlfriend anymore. So all in all, the whole Luna thing doesn’t feel like it’s been a big win.

At least they have good strong rope now, and Raven is securely tied up, but it’s hard to see that as significant progress when they still have no idea how to actually help her. They can’t just keep knocking her unconscious every time she comes to. That just doesn’t feel like a long term solution.

His head pounds and Jasper wishes, not for the first time, that he had something to take the edge off. His mind is clear, clearer than it’s been for a long time, and he’s glad for that. Relieved to find peace in the clarity at last. He doesn’t want to drink again. He just wishes the gnawing, twisting anxiety that they are all about to die would leave him alone for just one second.

With a smirk he thinks to himself that what he really needs are some of those leaves that he and Monty used to grow and smoke in secret up on the Ark. That’s what got them thrown in the Sky Box, that’s what started this whole misadventure in the first place. It feels like a very long time ago now. He remembers how he and Monty would smoke it in the storage lockers and then laugh and laugh and just relax all day. They could all use a day of laughing and relaxing these days. Especially Raven, he thinks sadly.

Then suddenly it doesn’t seem like such a stupid idea.

“I think I know how we can help Raven,” he says as the thought is still forming in his mind. It was the truth. It’s  _ exactly _ what Raven needs.      

Around him the others look up from their own depressed meditation.

“Monty, we need to find her some leaf.”

“What?” Monty raises his eyebrows in question.

“Wait, you want to get her high?” Miller asks incredulously. “Isn’t that already the problem?”

“Completely different drugs.” Jasper presses on, it’s making more and more sense to him as he says it out loud. “She’s coming off of an intense hallucinogenic, one that we all know in the come down makes you feel all the tension of the pain in your life intensely, right? So leaf will relax her, release some endorphins, help counteract all of the torment she has to process as she comes to grips with the reality of her life again.”  

He looks around at the others. It’s clear they aren’t sold, but it’s also clear that they don’t have any other bright ideas.

“Listen guys,” Jasper continues, “I know in a game of who’s-had-a-shittier-time-with-life-these-days, we all have a pretty good sob story to tell, but Raven would win that game. Hands down. Now our friend has to face the power of that pain all over again. We can’t just tie her up and let her suffer. We have to give her something to help her cope.”

A feeling floods Jasper that he hasn’t felt in a long time. Confidence. “This will work. I know it.”

“Yeah,” Monty agrees beside him, “I think… yeah, you might be right.”

Jasper can’t help it, instinctively he looks to Bellamy and to Clarke, sitting nearby, for their approval. He watches as they look to each other, exchanging unsaid words.

“Alright.” Bellamy says at last. “What do we need to do?”

A surge of electric pride pulses through Jasper. Time to get to work.

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, March 17th 2150**

 

Clarke sits motionless as she watches the water lap up to her ankles before retreating back into the ocean. The ocean. In all the chaos she hadn’t really taken it in before. It’s more beautiful and more terrifyingly vast than she ever could have imagined. Somewhere, out there in that wide expanse, is Lexa. She knows, logically, that Lexa is safe now. That she is somewhere where she can heal, be protected, and find peace, but that hasn’t done much to sooth the ragged edges of Clarke’s heartache. She hadn’t expected to love like this, hadn’t expected the loss to hurt like this. She can’t even imagine having to do everything she needs to without Lexa.

The others have set up camp just within the shelter of the tree line, and Clarke knows she should probably go join them. It’s late - she’s lost track of how long she’s been sitting out here - and she needs to get some rest. But the moon is high and bright, a perfect semi-circle illuminating the black night sky, and the ocean is beautiful, and she’s not ready to leave yet.

She hears the footsteps before she sees it. The black water starts to ripple a deep blue. She doesn’t have the energy to question the return of a tiny range of colour, or what it means, but she’s glad of it. She’s glad of the familiar comfort that washes over her as Bellamy sits down by her side.

He waits a moment before speaking, placing his torch sticking up in the sand and casting a warm orange glow over both of them.

“So, I know it seems beyond belief, but looks like Jasper’s whole let’s-get-Raven-stoned plan is actually working.”

Clarke looks over at him, surprised. This is good news. With everything that’s happened it’s hard to get excited about anything. Still, this is progress. This is good.

“That’s great.” Her voice is rough and cracked.

“Yeah. It is.”

Bellamy holds out a small stick of jerky to her. “Here. We found some emergency supplies in the rover. Sorry it’s not more, but we have to ration.”

Clarke accepts it, suddenly aware of how hungry she is. It’s tough, but sweet meat and Clarke savors every mouthful.

“Mm, thank you. This is really good.”

To Clarke’s surprise Bellamy lets out a short, sharp laugh. “Try having it three meals a day for four months.”  

It suddenly strikes her how little she really knows about what life’s been like in Arkadia. What life’s been like for Bellamy, or for any of her friends.

The urge to apologize overwhelms her. “Bellamy I’m so sor-“

“Don’t.” Bellamy stops her, “Please don’t apologize. I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

He takes a breath, looking out at the reflection of the moon in the water. “I was so mad at you for leaving. I don’t want to feel that way anymore. I don’t want us to be broken anymore.”

_ Broken.  _ That same word that her mother had used to describe their match.  

“Neither do I,” Clarke says quietly.

For a while, the only sound between them is the rushing churn of the ocean.

A couple of times, Bellamy opens his mouth as though to speak and then thinks better of it, letting out his breath on a sigh. Clarke just looks out at the cresting whitecaps, tasting the salt-tipped air.

“A better way,” she mutters eventually. She can feel Bellamy’s gaze on her, but he doesn’t speak. “I can’t stop thinking about it. We were going to do it better… we were so close, Bellamy.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice is strained, “I didn’t mean for any of this-”

“I know.” 

“I don’t know how to fix it.”

Clarke wonders, fleetingly, whether he’s talking about their people or their match. She doesn’t understand much about what happened to their match. She really doesn’t understand much about their match at all, but she does know one thing.

“Together.” They are always stronger together. “If we’re going to pull any of this off, we’re going to need each other.”

“Together.” Bellamy nods in agreement. “I’d like that.”

After another long moment Bellamy pulls something out of his jacket pocket.

“Here,” he holds out a tightly rolled joint wrapped in a dark green leaf, “Doctor Jasper’s orders. He says we could all benefit from a break.”

“We-” She looks up at him, bewilderment slicing through her cloud of misery, “we can’t take a break. We have to find a way to get Jaha and that drug out of Arkadia, help all of those people detox, and then do something about Pike and the war he’s trying to start!”

To her disbelief Bellamy is already using his torch to set one end of the leaf ablaze. The ghost of a smile that she has not seen in a long time crosses his face. 

“Those are tomorrow’s problems, Princess.”

The grief is still so strong in every pore of her body she’s not sure how it’s possible, but somehow, ridiculously, she finds herself smiling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading - would love to hear your thoughts!


	20. March 18th 2150: Together Again

**Monty, March 18th 2150**

 

Monty woke up that morning feeling better than he had in months, maybe even years. After a night of smoking and laughing with Jasper and the rest of his friends he had eventually passed out into a truly deep and peaceful sleep.

In the light of day the next morning the whole thing seemed a bit like a weird dream. Did they really find leaf growing in the forest, feed it to Raven and then all smoke it themselves? Had it really allowed Raven to calm down enough for her to eat something and curl up on her own a little ways away from their fire? Apparently.

The energy between them all feels different this morning, as they gather one by one around the fire, filtering down onto the beach. Harper moves to get the fire restarted, taking quiet instruction from Bryan, who brings her the kindling and firewood she needs. Looking for something to do, Monty goes to help Miller, Lincoln and Octavia drag down wide logs from the forest - four of them, one for each side of the fire and wide enough to seat three. They place them evenly around the growing fire as Bellamy and Clarke emerge from the rover together, carrying small rations of jerky and passing them out to everyone.

Monty accepts his portion from Clarke with a small smile, and takes a seat on one of the wide logs, chewing away at his breakfast and looking off to the right, at the wide ocean around them. Miller takes a seat across from him, giving him a gentle smile and pulling his attention back to the group. It feels so nice, so normal, to have so many of his friends around them. After a few minutes, Bryan and Harper move back from the now roaring fire and take up their own seats beside Bellamy and Clarke. Across from them, Lincoln and Octavia settle into a log of their own, their backs to the ocean.

Raven emerges last, Jasper’s hand resting protectively on her back. They take the last seats beside Monty, accepting the food Bellamy hands across to them.

Finally, they’ve gathered, and Monty can feel something change in the air as a sense of purpose settles on the group. They’re all here, focused and ready to face the task at hand. Of course the task at hand – taking back Arkadia and getting everyone safely off the drug – still sounds pretty much impossible. But as they start to discuss the situation, it’s clear that all of them are willing to do whatever they can, and hey, that’s a start at least.  

“We need to get Jaha and Alie out of the way and out of the camp before we can do anything else,” Bellamy outlines the first obstacle.

“Are you sure they’re the only ones who’ll be awake and aware?” Octavia asks, looking around the circle.

They tried their best to explain to Clarke and Octavia what happened in Arkadia, but Monty thinks they’ll probably need to see it before they really believe it. He can relate: he _did_ see it and still isn’t entirely sure he believes it.

“There could be others that resisted the influence at first,” he says, “but if they stayed in camp... I don’t know for sure, but I think continued exposure would be pretty hard to fight off.”

The others who experienced the effects first-hand nod their agreement. From the corner of his eye, Monty sees Raven shrink in on herself a little.

“Doesn’t matter what anyone else is doing,” Jasper says, his arm going protectively around Raven’s shoulders as he speaks, “the point is Jaha and Alie will definitely still be aware and on the lookout.”

“Why, though?” Bryan asks from the other side of the fire. “I mean why are they staying to stand guard over a camp that’s already completely under the drug’s control? What’s their goal? What do they want?”

“From what I’ve been able to put together,” Jasper attempts to answer, “they want the whole world on this drug. If they’re still in Arkadia, it must be to ensure a steady supply or something.”

“But you don’t think it’s to make sure that no one leaves, or tries to break free of the drug?” Bellamy asks.

“I don’t think that would ever even occur to them. They think the drug’s a gift.”

Clarke shifts forward on her seat, drawing the attention of the group to her, and speaks for the first time all morning. “So, do you think, if they knew of other people, not on the drug, that they would be interested in moving on?” Her voice holds promise of an idea already half-formed. “Could they be convinced to leave Arkadia if they think their mission there is complete?”

“I can’t be sure,” Jasper looks up to meet Clarke’s eye, and Monty sees a confidence in him that hasn’t been there for a long time, “but I think they would, yeah.”

“What are you thinking?” Bellamy turns to Clarke, shifting on their shared log to look at her directly.

“Nothing,” she mutters, looking away from him. There’s something like guilt in Clarke’s expression that sparks Monty’s interest.

He doesn’t dwell on it though, when Miller’s next words draw everyone’s attention. “So what are we going to do about them?”

An uncomfortable silence hangs over them all. “Well, look,” Bryan’s eyes flit around the circle at each of them, as though trying to find a friend. “Have we considered that killing them might be our only option?”

“You _would_ say that,” Lincoln mutters, loud enough to cut across the group. “Your people just kill anyone they consider inconvenient.”

“This is different, and you know it!”

“Stop,” Bellamy snaps.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway.” Raven’s voice is hoarse from screaming, but firm. “That won’t work.”

“What do you mean?” Jasper prompts, gentle.

“When I was…” She blinks hard. “Before. There was nothing I wouldn’t have done for Alie. I would have thrown myself in front of a bullet before I let anything happen to her or to her supply. She has a whole camp of body guards, you can’t kill her.” With a scrape of feet digging into wet sand, Raven pulls herself out of Jasper’s grasp and stands up. “I’m sorry, I just… I can’t, it’s too much. Let me know when you’ve come up with a plan.” She retreats back towards the rover, everyone watching in silence.

“Should someone go after her?” Harper asks softly.

Jasper shakes his head, looking at Harper sadly. “Not yet. She needs more time.”

Bellamy picks up again after an awkward beat. “So we don’t kill them. Maybe we can still lure them out, banish them from Arkadia.”

“Okay,” Miller starts, leaning forward, “but even if we have them out of the way, and even if we can somehow manage to put out all of their fires without falling victim to the smoke ourselves-”

“Big if’s,” Monty agrees.

“Right. Plus, even if we do all that, then we’re still going to have to deal with hundreds of angry, armed, Arkers, some of whom already wanted us dead when they were in their right minds, let alone what they might want when they are in their comedown.”

Monty has considered this too. He has considered how he could possibly face his mother again knowing that she was ready to put his friends in prison. How far would she have been willing to go? Would she have been willing to turn him in too? Questions that he does not want the answer to fill his brain. If they return, there is only one option.

“We lock them up.”

“Everyone?” Harper asks gently.

“The Council needs to be locked up. Everyone else can be disarmed. We can lock up and secure the weapons.”

“While they’re still high, you mean?” Miller asks. At Monty’s replying nod, he smiles. “So we neutralize the camp and the leaders first. Only then do we put out the fires. Yeah, that’s good-”  

“Disarmed doesn’t mean neutralized,” Lincoln points out. “They’ll fight with whatever they can get their hands on, if it comes to it.”

“The leaf can help with that,” Jasper counters. “Maybe we can repurpose those fires they’ve been using to infect camp.”

Nods around the circle.

“This can work,” Bellamy says slowly. “But you realize what this mean? We’re also staging a coup. Taking control of Arkadia by force.”

“Good.” All eyes turn to Clarke. It’s so good to have her back.

 

* * *

 

**Nathan, March 18th 2150**

 

Miller throws another log onto the fire and watches as the embers glow a brilliant orange and red. The warmth it throws off isn’t enough to really keep out the evening chill, which slices easily through his thin jacket, but Miller leans into it anyway, pulling out what heat he can.

It’s been a long day of planning, and Miller still feels like there are so many ways this plan could go wrong. There are so many unknowns, so many factors they can’t account for, or information they don’t have. But they’re doing the best with what they’ve got. The plan is risky as hell, but tomorrow, with a lot of luck, they might just be able to pull this off. For now, all they can do now is wait for the night to pass.

Some of the others have curled up to sleep, trying to rest by sheer force of will. For his part, Miller doesn’t think it’s likely he’ll be able to sleep tonight.

Instead, he’s been watching Bryan out of the corner of his eye. Miller’s spent most of the day trying to find the right time to talk to him, and he thinks he might finally see his opportunity. Miller spies him sitting alone on the outskirts of their makeshift camp. It has to be now, before the opportunity passes or Miller loses his nerve.

He takes a moment to gather himself, then crosses over to sit down on the dry sand beside him.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly, unsure how to have - or even start - this conversation. The hot burn of the drug’s influence is gone, but it left behind a well of shame that Miller doesn’t know how to work through.

“Hi.” Bryan smiles back at him, and in his smile Miller finds the confidence to go on.

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t worthy of your trust. I’m sorry I betrayed you.” In Bryan’s wide, kind eyes, Miller can finally see the guy he fell in love with so many years ago.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance we can just take all this back and go back to the way things were, do you?” Miller asks, though he thinks he already knows the answer.

Bryan takes a moment, then shakes his head sadly. “I think we’d have to go too far back in order to make things okay. We’d have to go all the way back to when we were on the Ark.”

“What if we’re not going back? What if we just, you know, go forward?”

Bryan’s eyes are sad, but firm, when his gazes captures Miller’s. “I don’t think we can. Not together, anyway, not after everything we’ve been through. We’re different people now, Nate. We’ve both changed. I love you, and I want us to move forward, but I don’t think we can be what each other needs.”

Nathan just nods, not trusting himself to speak against the lump growing in his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

“I get it.” Miller steadies himself. “You’re probably right.”

Miller moves to get up, wanting to get out of this conversation as fast as possible, but there is one other thing that he has to say. One other thing that’s been haunting him for months, unsaid. So he drops back to the sand, resolute.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” Miller begins, focusing on a small tear in the knee of his pants rather than face Bryan’s curious gaze. “I can’t really think of a worse time to tell you this, I definitely should have told you months ago, but I guess I was just scared that you’d think it meant that I had changed, or we had changed, which obviously we have, but I love you - I loved you - and I just wanted us to be us again, you know?”

Bryan blinks at him, apparently waiting for Miller to finish rambling.

“I found my match,” Miller spits out at last. Instantly he feels better - and worse - as he watches Bryan for his reaction.

“Ah,” Bryan says slowly, taking this in. “Well, that would have… yeah… I can see why you didn’t mention it.” Miller is silent, unsure what to say, when Bryan continues, “Is it Monty?”

“Wha-” Miller stutters in shock, “How did...? Uhh-”

“It was just, well, I’ve seen the way he looks at you sometimes, I just thought... that’s all.”

“Oh.” Miller absorbs this, confused. “But I’m not his - it’s,” he sighs, “It’s one-sided.”

“Okay.”

Miller can tell Bryan is thinking more than he’s saying, but lets it go.

They sit together for a moment, digesting all of this. Miller already feels lighter than he has all day. Even if his heart aches, just being able to speak to Bryan again, after everything, feels good.

“When the smoke hit me,” Bryan begins delicately, not looking at Miller, “I saw someone I’ve never seen before. He was… I don’t know who he was, but I can’t stop thinking about him. What do you think it means?”

A smile, slow and genuine, blooms on Miller’s face. “I can take a guess,” he says. And maybe there's a tight pinch of jealousy in his chest, but it's nothing, really, compared to his pleasure that Bryan might have a match out there waiting for him.

Though his words don't have the effect Miller expects. Instead of looking excited, Bryan’s face falls. Surprised, Miller nudges him gently. “What’s wrong?”

“I think he must have been a Grounder.” Bryan’s voice is tiny with something like shame.

“Yeah,” Miller agrees, “he probably is. So?”

“So?” Bryan’s voice cracks with indignation. “Nathan, I’ve been killing his people for months. They’re the _enemy.”_

When he speaks, Nathan is careful to keep his voice low and kind. “Are you upset because you think he’s your enemy, or because it turns out you might have been wrong about the Grounders after all?”

Bryan winces. “I don’t know. Maybe both.” His fingers dig into the sand, leaving disrupted holes tilled into the beach.

“You want to know what I think it means?” says Miller after a moment. “I think it means there’s someone out there that will make you very happy. All you have to do now is find him.”

“What if I can’t?” Miller can hear the true note of fear in Bryan’s voice.

“Sometimes I think we just have to trust that the universe has a plan for us.”

Bryan lets out a dry laugh, “Nathan Miller, having faith in the universe. I guess we really have changed.”

“Yeah. I guess we have.”

 

* * *

 

**Harper, March 18th 2150**

 

Harper is restless. It’s not just thoughts of the mission tomorrow that are racing around in her head, keeping her from sleeping. She can’t stop thinking about the smoke. Can’t stop dreaming of herself as she had appeared. She wants to be that person, someone who isn’t afraid to ask for what she wants. Confident. Sexy. Strong.

How long will it take for her to become that person?

Eventually, she gives up on the idea of getting any sleep. She slips silently from their small camp, hidden within the treeline, and makes her way down towards the beach. At the top of the beach she spies the shilotetted figures of Bryan and Miller, and decides to give them a wide berth. They have a lot to talk through. Turning to the north instead, she walks along the beach for a while. The sound of the ocean lapping against the shore, the sink of her boots into the uneven sand, the whip of crisp salt-tipped wind on her face, all of it is a balm to her frayed nerves.

A half-mile from camp, she finds Monty. He’s leaning back against a large rock, his head thrown back, looking up at the night sky.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks as she approaches.

Monty shakes his head, moving over slightly to make room for her to join him.

“Me neither.” She sinks onto the sand next to him. The rock is cool and damp against her back. “It’s all the adrenaline, you know? Who knows what tomorrow might bring and so on.”

“Yeah.”

Silence envelops them, warms and comfortable.

“Can you believe we used to live up there?” Monty’s asks eventually, his gaze back on the night sky.

It’s a cloudless night, the sky fit to bursting with pinpricks of glowing stars against the black expanse of space. Without even thinking about it, Harper can pick out various constellations from the night’s sky. Orion, and Gemini, and Perseus. She always liked Astronomy class on the Ark. It felt so _immediate_ , right up there in space. Plus, colour was irrelevant, so no one had an advantage in the class. She’d liked it a hell of a lot more than Earth Skills, where the shade of a leaf was the difference between a tasty snack and poison, tests which she used to flunk all the time. Turns out it’s easier to tell if you can _touch_ them. Mr. Pike failed to mention that in class.

“It doesn’t even feel real, anymore,” Harper thinks aloud. “The Ark, our life up there…”

Monty hums his agreement.

Suddenly, visions of the smoke-Harper fill her head. This is a new world, a new chance. She doesn’t have to be the same person she was on the Ark. Here, on Earth, she has friends, a family, people who love her. She can have _more_ than the Ark had offered her.

The words come to her bolder than she ever would have imagined she could be.

“I’m hot, right Monty? I’m desireable?”

Monty turns to stare at her like she’s just spoken a foreign language.

“What?”

“Not like, because I want you!” Harper quickly attempts to backtrack, already feeling like an idiot. “Just, you know, generally?” Her cheeks blaze with embarrassment. “Ugh, forget I said anything.”

“I-“ Monty starts, “Uh, I’m probably the wrong person to ask. I’m gay.” He lets out a long, slow breath. Looking at his hands, he adds, “also… I’m in love with Nathan.”

Harper lets out something approaching a _squeal_ of delight, her humiliation forgotten. “Oh, really? That’s so great! I mean, I thought you might be, I know you and Miller-”

She slaps a hand over her mouth. _Shit._

Monty looks at her sharply. “What about me and Nathan?”

“Aww crap,” Harper moans. So much for the swave and sophisticated smoke-Harper she’s aspiring to.

“Harper?”

“I, uh…” She drops her hand from her face and casts Monty a guilty grimace. “Miller told me about his match.”

“Oh.” Monty’s face is a mixture of emotions that Harper can’t untangle. Mostly, he just looks sad.

“Sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“What? No, it’s fine… but, it doesn’t matter. He loves Bryan.”

“Well yeah, I mean sure, he and Bryan go way back. But Monty I’ve never seen Miller look at anyone the way he looks at you. He loves you. A lot.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.” Harper smiles, “I do.”

Monty shares her smile and the two sit in a comfortable silence looking up at the stars together. Finally, Harper gets up to move back to the warmth of the fire in their camp.

She hesitates for a moment, turns back and asks.

“Hey, if you weren’t gay, would you think I’m…?”

“Oh yeah.” Monty grins up at her, “You’re hot shit, Harper McIntyre.”

 

* * *

 

**Jasper, March 18th 2150**

 

Jasper – just like everyone else in this camp apparently – can’t sleep.

He sits up and looks around. Harper appears from the shadows, walking up from the beach. She is smiling slightly as she lies down on her blanket and looks like she’s ready to get some sleep. Well, that’s nice for her, Jasper thinks, but he needs to get up. Maybe a walk will help. Miller and Bryan are sitting together talking at one edge of the camp. Okay well then he’s not going that way, ‘cause that’s definitely a conversation he doesn’t want to interrupt.

Bellamy and Clarke are at the other side of the camp. Clarke sits awake, alert while Bellamy lies sleeping by her side. Jasper feels an indescribable comfort at the sight of them. There is something about all of them being here together again. Suddenly things that seemed impossible two days ago seem downright easy now.

Octavia and Lincoln he knows moved further off to sleep for… obvious privacy reasons. And he doesn’t know where Monty is. Maybe down by the water? He thinks about walking down to the water himself, when he spots Raven, awake, staring into the fire at the centre of camp.

He moves towards her slowly and sits down next to her, feeling the hot sting of the fire’s warmth on his face.

She doesn’t look over at him as he sits down, but her eyes look clear and focused for the first time since she took the drug.

“How are you feeling?”

Raven doesn’t answer. And after a moment he is about to try again when she speaks.

“Like I’m drowning.”

It’s Jasper’s turn to not say anything.

“Like all there is, is pain and darkness and it’s suffocating me.” Raven continues, her voice is dry and rough.

A wave of grief washes over Jasper at the thought of Raven’s pain.

“I’m so sorry you’ve had to suffer so much. It’s not fair. You don’t deserve any of it.” The words spill out of Jasper from his heart. He takes a moment to steady himself before continuing. “I do know what the pressing darkness feels like. I tried to run away from it too. It didn’t work. I remember thinking that it didn’t matter what I did because I was alone. No one cared about me so why should I care.”

Jasper looks over at Raven and sees her listening while continuing to stare straight ahead.

“I was wrong though. I was wrong about one huge thing. I wasn’t alone. I’m not now, and neither are you. We’re the Hundred, Raven. We’ll always have each other’s backs, and we’re going to get through this. Our plan is going to work Raven, we’re going to take back control of Arkadia, get rid of Jaha and Alie, and help everyone off the drug.”

Even with no reaction from Raven, talking feels good, and Jasper is compelled to keep going. Raven had only been able to sit with them a short time when they’d been down on the beach that morning making their plans. Eventually she’d drifted off in search of quiet solitude. Now Jasper feels the need to catch her up on everything she’s missed.

“We’ve gone over everything see, and we all have our roles to play tomorrow. First Bellamy and Clarke are going to lure Jaha and Alie out of the camp and take their stash off them, then while they’re distracted Miller, Bryan, Harper, Octavia and Lincoln are going to sneak into camp, disarm everyone and then lock up Pike and all his council members. They’ll all still be high at this point see so moving them into the cells shouldn’t be too difficult. Then Monty and I will be standing by and when we get the go ahead that the camp is secure we need to put out all of the fires as quickly as possible, destroying all traces of the drug, and then relight the fires to burn large quantities of leaf. Of course the tricky thing is we don’t know how many fires they’ll even have by now, so it’s hard to know how long it’ll even take to destroy the fires. But we need them completely gone by the time people realize what we’re doing or we’re worried they’ll all do everything they can to stop us putting out the fire and their drug source.”

It suddenly occurs to Jasper that this might all be way too recent for Raven to hear about other people coming down off the drug and he lapses into silence. He’s just starting to kick himself for being such a moron when Raven startles him by speaking.

“The water tank.”

“What?”

“There’s a full water tank in Engineering. Attach a pressurized hose and use that to put out the fires.”

“That’s- that’s brilliant!” Jasper exclaims feeling like the final puzzle piece has fallen at last into place. He pauses. “Uhh... how would we attach a pressurized hose?”   

“Well,” Raven turns, meeting his eye for the first time, “I guess I’ll just have to come show you.”

“Er- Raven are you sure?” Jasper stalls nervously. “The drug will still be everywhere in the air while we work, the temptation- the risk of exposure-”

“It’s okay.” Raven’s voice has a strength and thin determination to it now, “I got your back.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gang is back together again!! This chapter was really satisfying to write, these delinquents have all been through a lot, but now as they come together again they can find ways to start to heal by being there for one another.


	21. March 19th 2150: Takeover

**Clarke, March 19th 2150**

 

Colour pulses around Clarke as she walks, side by side with Bellamy, across the open clearing towards Arkadia.

Everyone is in place. Waiting for the signal.

The front gate lies open, hanging off its hinges. That would be the damage Bryan and Monty took credit for as they escaped in the rover. Looks as though no one’s made any effort to fix it, or even clear the broken pieces of the gate. They could easily walk right into the camp, but they don’t. Instead they come to a halt in clear view, a safe distance away from the gate. Even from here Clarke can smell something vaguely sweet in the air. If they move any closer they’ll be in rage of the drug. They need Jaha and Alie to come to them.

“JAHA,” Bellamy bellows, lifting up a scrap of white fabric in his left hand. “ALIE.”

Clarke is worried that already they may have failed.  _ What if they refuse to meet outside of the gates?  _ Then she sees them. Two figures moving delicately and dignified in a way that feels unnatural and at odds with their surroundings.

Stopping a few feet in front of them, Jaha takes them both in before speaking. “Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake.” Clarke is suddenly struck by the fact that Bellamy once shot this man. She wonders if he’s remembering that too. “What can I do for you?” His voice is disturbingly calm.

“We have a proposition for you,” Bellamy speaks, mimicking Jaha’s emotionless tone. 

“What is your proposition?” So this is Alie. Her voice has an eerie inhuman quality that Clarke finds deeply unsettling. She also hasn’t seen anyone so clean since they landed on the ground. How is that even possible?

In unison, Clarke and Bellamy unclip the safeties on their guns and aim them unerringly at each of their targets. Staring down her gun at Alie, Clarke’s hand doesn’t tremble, even as her heart slams against her ribcage. Beside her, she feels Bellamy holding the same position, his aim locked on Jaha. 

“Leave,” Bellamy bites out, “and we won’t kill you.”

Across the field, Alie doesn’t flinch. She holds out her hands, palms up. “I am unarmed, Clarke Griffin. You would shoot someone who is unarmed?”

“I’ve done it before.”

“And does it not haunt you?” Alie’s voice is infuriatingly calm, unconcerned, as though she  _ knows. _ As though she can see right through Clarke’s sure posture, to the nightmares that still plague her.

“I do what I have to.”

“Yes, you are a survivor, Clarke Griffin.”

They way she says Clarke’s full name is making her skin crawl. Clarke wants to shout at her to stop, but knows that it would sound petty. She can't let this woman get under her skin.

“You have nothing to fear from me and my people,” Alie continues. “We mean you no harm.”

“Those people in there are  _ not _ your people,” Bellamy growls. 

Alie’s eyes flit to Bellamy briefly, seem to dismiss him, and lock back in on Clarke. “We could work together. We both want what is best for the people of Arkadia.”

At some point, Alie started moving towards Clarke, each step smooth and sure, completely undaunted by the barrel of the gun aimed directly at her heart.

“You’re wrong,” Clarke counters. “What we  _ want _ is free will for our people. We want them free.”

“Do you?” Alie presses, closer now. “I have heard of the divisions among these people. The wars they brew, the innocents they kill. You would see them return to that?”

This was  _ not _ the plan. Threaten them, take their drugs off them, banish them from Arkadia. It might not be the best plan ever devised, but they’ve worked their way out of worse situations with less to go on. Anyway, that’s the plan. This…

“I offer a better way, Clarke. One free from pain, free from war. You will never again have to watch someone you love die.” 

Clarke looks to Bellamy. It’s just a moment, less than the space of a blink, but it’s enough. Against her will, she sees again the image of Lexa, falling on the steps of Polis. Lexa, her breath wet and gasping. Lexa, her heart stopped under Clarke’s palms. Lexa, parted from her across an unfathomable distance, another casualty of this war. She cannot - she  _ will not _ \- allow the same thing to happen to Bellamy. Clarke’s hesitation is her undoing.

A slow, sinister smile creeps over Alie’s face. She’s right in front of Clarke now, the barrel of Clarke’s gun pressing against her dark dress. 

She should shoot, she knows she should shoot. This weird, impossible woman is holding her mom and everyone else in Arkadia hostage, drugged against their will - she is a _threa_ t. Clarke had been right to kill the Mountain King last time, and she would be right to kill Alie now. She had been right, hadn’t she? Clarke readjusts her hold on her gun, but her palms are sweating now, her fingers slick against the grip. It would only take a moment, a squeezed trigger and the hard snapping recoil and it would be over. But she can’t…. She can’t… Her gun is lowering, her hands falling to her sides…

“That’s right,” Alie is saying softly, “let me show you-”

“Wait!” Bellamy’s voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away. “Stop!”

Alie’s hold over Clarke snaps as she looks over at him. Bellamy’s eyes are wide with fear, his lips compressed in a hard line, a muscle in his jaw working furiously, but when he speaks, he sounds confident and calm.

“You’re right,” he says, looking only at Alie. “You have found a better way. We should work together.”

_ What? _ Clarke can hear an idea, a plan of some kind, under Bellamy’s words, but she’s racing to try and catch up. She wishes he would look at her, but his eyes are trained only on Alie, leaving Clarke to try and guess his plan as they go. 

A first glint of intrigue flickers in Alie’s lifeless face, as though deciding that Bellamy might be interesting after all. “Excellent.” She smiles again. “The City of Light-”

“Not like that,” Bellamy cuts her off. “We won’t be like them-” he indicates with a jerk of his head towards Arkadia. “We’ll be like  _ him _ .” He uses the barrel of his own still-cocked gun to point to Jaha. “Look, you say you want to show the world the light, right? Why don’t you go do that, go spread the word. Let us look after Arkadia. We’ll make sure the fires keep burning.”

“Yes.” Alie nods. “Someone must act as shepherd to watch over and ensure the supply is continuous.” 

“We can do that,” Clarke jumps in, swallowing hard. “These are our people. We will watch over them.” She’s finding it hard to keep her voice from wavering, but she tries her best to remove all emotion from it.

“Your work is not yet finished,” Bellamy agrees, nodding earnestly. “Let us help you.”

Alie narrows her eyes, looking from one to the other of them. Clarke can feel panic clawing under her skin. She’s sure Alie can see it, sure she can sense it. Finally, Alie settles her gaze on Bellamy, her eyes hard and accusatory. “How can we trust that you want to help, Bellamy Blake? You who will not take the cure yourself. Do you think, with your match by your side, that our medicine has nothing to offer you?”

“I do want the drug - the  _ medicine,” _ Bellamy corrects quickly. “Of course I do. Clarke wants to join the light too, but is willing to sacrifice her place in the City of Light for the good of our people.” 

Alie’s head tilts to the side. “I do not question Clarke Griffin’s desire for unity and peace above all,” she replies slowly. “She will act as guardian of the City of Light, as Thelonious has done before her. But we do not require two gate-keepers. You, Bellamy Blake, you will take the cure willingly?”

Bellamy holds out his hand. “Please.”

_ What the hell is he thinking?!  _ Clarke feels the panic swelling in her chest now. This was not part of the plan. Bellamy can’t take the drug, she needs him to help her take control of the camp. She looks over at him, but his face gives nothing away as Alie pulls out from within her sleek black bag a small vial of white powder and places it on his open palm.

“You will leave the protection of these people to Clarke?” Bellamy confirms as his hand curl around the thin glass tube. 

“There is no need for that,” Jaha says from his position a few paces back. “I can stay in Arkadia. The protection of these people is my responsibility-” 

“No!” Alie shouts swiftly. For the first time, her composure slips, something like jealousy creeping into her voice. “I will need you with me, Thelonious, in our mission to win others to our cause. If Bellamy is genuine about his desire to join the City of Light, then we shall leave this camp in Clarke’s hands.”

Clarke looks on in shock as Bellamy gives the slightest of nods and then, without breaking eye contact with Alie, uncaps the vial and inhales the powder within.

Horrified, she watches as Bellamy’s eyes glaze over and roll back in his head. He falls to his knees in the dirt. 

Clarke lets out a frustrated noise halfway to a scream and rounds on Alie. “You are so keen to spread your gospel? I know where you can go.” She barely recognizes the sound of her own voice, twisted with too much grief and dancing on the edge of something low and dangerous. “There is a city, north-by-northeast of here, with a hundred times again the number of people as you found in Arkadia. They will always welcome those with new goods to trade.”

Vicious, surging rage is burning so hot in Clarke’s blood that it blots out anything else and she feels, for the first time, the satisfaction of vengeance. She thinks of Polis, of the traitors who cheered as they cut Lexa down, and of Alie and her foul drug, leaving Bellamy a shell in the dirt. They deserve each other. 

“Thank you, Clarke Griffin. We will go where you suggest.”

Clarke forces a look of calm contentment on her face as Alie pulls out a large bag, which clinks with more vials of the drug.

“For yourself, take only a small amount each day. Your tolerance will grow as you tend the fires, and your conviction in the execution of your duty will keep you from fully entering the City of Light.” She drops the bag at Clarke’s feet. “Keep them in the light.”

“I will,” Clarke responds. For a moment that feels like an eternity, Alie holds Clarke’s gaze. Clarke’s insides are churning, her heart is pounding, but she refuses to flinch from Alie’s piercing stare.  

Finally, apparently satisfied, Alie gives Clarke a strange half nod and turns away. Striding towards the tree line, away from the camp. Jaha follows by her side and as Clarke watches the two of them walk away, neither of them look back at Arkadia once.

Clarke waits an agonizing few moments after she’s seen them disappear into the trees before she falls to the ground next to Bellamy.

“Bellamy!” She holds his face in her hands, shaking him a little, desperately willing him to wake up. “Bellamy, please! Come back to me.” How could he just volunteer to leave her like that? To sacrifice himself like that? They agreed to do this together, how is she supposed to take charge of all of Arkadia without him. “BELLAMY!”

His eyes blink suddenly and snap back to life. “Clarke,” he gasps, falling backwards to sit on the ground. “It’s- it’s alright, I’m alright.” He’s looking around a little frantically to regain his bearings, but other than that he looks himself again.     

“What kind of reckless, thoughtless, idiotic move was that!” Clarke fights back a tightness in her throat. “You could have ruined everything! You could have-“

“Clarke, it was fine. We would never have convinced them to trust us if one of us hadn’t taken the drug, and I knew you’d be able to pull me out.”

“That seems like a pretty wild chance! How could you possibly know that?”

“Because Clarke, on the drug, I just see you.” Bellamy says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The weight of these words hits Clarke like a ton of bricks. She’s the person who makes Bellamy happiest of all. Obviously it’s not news to her that they are matched, that they have a powerful connection. But the idea that Bellamy actually cares about her as a person, that he values her above anyone else, that she has the power to make him happy. It feels shocking to her.

Bellamy, clearly registering the shock on her face, gets up off the ground and reaches down to offer her a hand up. She accepts it, her legs shaking suddenly under her as the adrenaline begins to wear off. She thinks again of the people of Polis. Moments ago she had been so sure, had felt so  _ good _ setting Alie and her poison on them. Now, looking at Bellamy, her fury has dissipated, leaving only a sour twist in her gut. 

“Bellamy,” she chokes, “I think I’ve made a mistake.” 

“We’ve all made those,” he says gently, his hand on her forearm. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.” 

Clarke takes his hand, and as he starts to pull back, she reaches out and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. He responds quickly, tightening his arms around her lower back, melting into her. There is so much that she wants to say to him, so much she wishes she could explain and apologize for. But there’s no time for any of that yet. For now, there’s just the two of them, each gathering strength from the other’s presence.

When they finally pull apart they both turn resolutely towards the gates of Arkadia. 

“Come on. Time to go save our people.”

Phase Two of the plan has begun. 

* * *

 

**Bryan, March 19th 2150**

 

The signal comes through the radio that Miller is holding, up ahead at the edge of the tunnel. Clarke and Bellamy have succeeded. It’s time to go.

Bryan follows suit as the others tighten a damp fabric around their faces, covering their nose and mouth. The cloth is ratty and stained and smells disgusting, but Monty said that this should protect them from the effects of the smoke. Even thinking about the sweetly scented drug, Bryan’s heart ticks up. It’s there, just on the other side of that wall, and he can’t decided whether the thought terrifies or excites him. 

Silently, Nathan pulls the exit to the passageway aside and they all climb out behind him one by one and jump down into the Ark corridor. Without speaking, they nod to one another and then move off into three groups. Octavia and Lincoln are on disarm detail, a pretty sizable job, since last Bryan checked Pike had armed most of Arkadia’s citizens. Meanwhile Monty, Jasper and Raven have to tackle the bonfires, while Bryan follows Miller and Harper to to round up Pike and the other council members. The three groups nod to one another, before breaking off on their separate missions. 

The camp all looks almost eerily the same. As they move through the garage Bryan sees the rovers he had been inspecting and cleaning a few days ago right where he left them, doors all left open and a bottle of cleaner sitting out and abandoned on the ground. That moment feels like a lifetime ago now. How is it possible that his life could change so dramatically in just a couple of days? 

They move out, skirting around the main courtyard, towards Pike’s office. Out here, though, nothing looks the same. In the centre of the yard is a giant bonfire, at least six feet tall, and all around it Arkers wander or sit in a trance. They look pale, their eyes are wide and glassy, and it’s hard not to wonder what they’re all seeing.

Ahead, Miller throws up his arm in a silent signal, when he’s sure the coast is clear.  _ Let’s move.  _

As they continue their way around, the wind suddenly shifts, and Bryan can feel the heat of the smoke twisting around him like a blanket.  _ Don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don’t-  _ Laughter. The memory of it rings in his head, calls to him, and all Bryan wants in the world is to follow it down whatever rabbit hole it leads to. God, he misses that laugh, and maybe this time he’ll be able to see the man’s eyes… what harm could one little look do? One breath of smoke. All he has to do is pull the fabric covering his nose and mouth down and then he could see him. 

He is just reaching up to remove the fabric when he feels himself pulled roughly away, and shoved inside the Ark, separating him from the thick smoke of the yard.

“Bryan!” Nathan’s voice is low and muffled from his own face covering. “Remember, it wouldn’t be real. It’s not worth it.”

A deep pang of loss reverberates through him. It’s easy for Nathan to say, when his match is just on the other side of camp, known to him already. But Bryan… he doesn’t know anything about his match, doesn’t have any other clues about the man at all... 

Nathan’s eyes are watching him intently, and read his silence correctly. “I promise you, you will find him. We will find him, but not like this.”

Bryan meets his eyes and nods. Of course he’s right. Of course it would be madness to give in to the drug now, when everyone’s safety relies on them succeeding in what they’ve come here to do.

Harper motions to them both and they follow her towards Pike’s office.

Of course this is the right thing to do. That doesn’t stop the laugh from calling to him, even now. Its memory is a ghost that refuses to stop haunting him.

 

* * *

 

**Lincoln, March 19th 2150**

 

“You think this is all of it?” 

Lincoln and Octavia each drop another armful of artillery onto the floor. It crashes on top of the pile, which has gradually grown into a stockpile of assorted weaponry, stacked outside the door to the armory. It’s been slow-going, moving through the catatonic civilians of Arkadia, prising weapons from their belts, or off their backs, or sometimes right out from their hands, without any of them so much as blinking. They raided the Mess and Medical, removing any blades they could find, they checked quarters and the yard and the garage, and are as sure as they can be that the guns have all been rounded up. 

Octavia kicks the heap of weapons with her toe. 

“Impossible to say,” Lincoln replies, “but I think this is the best we can do for now.” 

Octavia leans heavily against the mesh cage of the armory, which rattles under her weight. On the other side of the locked cage door, lies the rest of Arkadia’s ammunition. Fruitlessly, Octavia reaches to the side and rattles the door. It’s just as locked now as it was the first hundred times she tried it. 

“We need to get the key,” she mutters.

“I’ll go down to the holding cells. Miller’s team should be in place by now.” 

Octavia gives him a look of concern, but doesn’t complain. She nods shortly. “I’ll do one more pass around camp. Once we’ve got this shit locked up, then we can radio Monty and let him know to start on Phase Three.”

As they move off in separate directions, Lincoln feels an immediate tug somewhere under his ribs at even this small distance between them. It’s not the range - he can still see the Ark in all its plain-coloured glory - but recent events have made Lincoln reluctant to part from Octavia at all if he can help it. Reflecting on the last six months since the Sky People’s arrival, it strikes Lincoln that all the worst events either of them have endured have happened when they were separated from each other. When Octavia’s by his side, Lincoln feels his strength tenfold. Without her, he sees danger around every corner. 

Still, he refuses to let his fear master him, especially here. He will not be driven from this place by people with war in their eyes and hatred in their hearts. 

He finds Miller, Harper, and Bryan standing guard outside the main cell of the hold. All three of them stand to attention when they hear someone approaching, their shoulders going rigid, hands flexing towards weapons. They relax when they recognize Lincoln, though Lincoln notes with a cold eye that it takes a little longer for Bryan to lower his hand from his weapons belt. 

He turns his attention from the Farm Station boy. Lincoln thinks it will take some time before he can look at him without a spike of suspicion rushing through his blood. 

“Everything okay?” Harper asks. She’s looking over Lincoln’s shoulder as though expecting to see an army of drugged civilians chasing him. 

“Fine,” replies Lincoln shortly. “Octavia’s doing a last check for weapons. I’m here for the armory key.”

“Sure.” It’s Bryan who speaks, and Lincoln is forced to look over at him. “We took Pike’s keys off him when we locked him up.” Bryan jerks his head, indicating through the bars of the cell.  

Inside, Pike is sitting on a bench in the centre of the jail. He’s smiling thickly at nothing at all, reaching out to touch at thin air. Lincoln is only passingly curious what a man like Pike sees in the City of Light. What is his version of true happiness? A world without Grounders, where he and his people can have free reign of the Earth without care for the people already living on it? Dimly, Lincoln suspects that Pike wants just the same as every other person alive: for him and those he cares for to be safe. All the same, he has little sympathy to spare for a man who would slaughter an army in their sleep, or imprison the sick, or plot an execution without cause. 

Keys jangle on a ring, the sound pulling Lincoln’s attention back to Bryan. He hands out the lot of them. “It’s gotta be one of these. Don’t know which, you might just need to try ‘em all.”

Lincoln takes the keys Bryan’s offering, and tries to fight a roll of cognitive dissonance at the idea of accepting anything from Bryan. He twirls the keys once in his hand, before dropping them into a pocket of his pants, the metal cool against his leg.

Irresistibly, Lincoln’s gaze is drawn back to Pike. Jailed by his own people. What a strange turn the past few days have taken.

“Is it true,” Lincoln starts speaking before he can think better of it, “that you were going to execute me?”

His eyes snap back over to Bryan, who looks blindsided by Lincoln’s question. 

“Lincoln…” Harper says softly, “please don’t do this, we need to work together.”

“I just have to know,” Lincoln says, struggling to keep his voice even. He turns to Bryan, subjecting him to the full force of his gaze. “Is it true? Pike was going to have me executed. To, what, set an example?”

Bryan, to his credit, holds Lincoln’s gaze. Though the open terror in his face speaks volumes. 

“I don’t know,” he says after a moment, when it becomes clear that Lincoln is waiting for him to speak. “I don’t think Pike had decided yet.”

“But you were surprised to see me when we rendezvoused with the rover. You weren’t just surprised we escaped, you were surprised I was still alive.” 

The thought has been troubling him ever since they left Arkadia, but the sight of Pike sitting jailed, in the same position Lincoln had been only two days ago, has shaken something loose in him. He cannot just let this go. 

“I…” Bryan hesitates. From the corner of his eye, Lincoln sees Miller make some kind of abortive gesture, clearly thinking about intervening and then deciding against it. Bryan’s gaze cuts to Miller, then back again. 

“You were the most likely… candidate,” he finishes, his eyes meeting Lincoln’s.

Instead of anger, Lincoln feels strengthened with a calm clarity. Weirdly, hearing the truth is kind of a relief. Now he knows. After everything he gave up, estranging himself from Trikru and living under a kill order all winter, there is nowhere to escape from the threat of violence. His Clan does not want him, his match’s Clan does not want him. For the first time, Lincoln understands the claustrophobia that has been choking Octavia steadily since they settled in Arkadia.

She’s been right all along, there is no place for them here. He should have insisted on escaping with her all those months ago, when Anya and her forces were the worst enemy they had faced.  

“If the bonfires had been lit even a day later…” he thinks out loud. 

“Hey!” Harper snaps, a flare of anger in her kind eyes. “We never would have let that happen, you hear?”

“We’d have figured something out,” Miller agrees.

Lincoln gives his friends a tepid smile, though he isn’t sure how much he believes they could have stopped it once Pike had made the decision.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Miller continues, his assured tone cutting through the tension in the air. “Right now, what matters is getting that key back to Octavia. Lock up the weapons, and signal Monty to begin Phase Three. Whatever else, we’re going to finish what we came here for.”

In no mood to fight, Lincoln turns back to head towards the armory. Though he can’t help thinking, as he goes, why he’s helping to rescue the same people who wanted him dead just days before. 

 

* * *

 

**Raven, March 19th 2150**

 

This plan kind of sucks.  

Raven moves slowly as they slink down the familiar path towards Engineering, flanked tightly on either side by Jasper and Monty. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost say they were keeping an eye on her. Oh, who’s she kidding, that’s exactly what they’re doing. She’d like to be annoyed about it, but it’s probably smart on their part.

Because even now, she can still feel the impact of the white power. It’s completely gone from her system, apparently, but it left a mark, an imprint on her. She can picture Finn clearly, smiling at her with that wicked, careless grin that used to look so good on him. She can visualize, so easily, what the expanded Arkadian camp looks like in colour, even though she never saw it while Finn was alive. Worst of all, she knows that she can get it back: Finn, the colour, and the desperately wonderful oblivion of the City of Light. The smoke is filtering through camp, so close. It wouldn’t even be hard, she could just turn, walk to the main square, plunge herself head-first right back into the City of Light. 

She could do that, and holy crap does she want to. 

Except Monty is on one side of her, and Jasper on the other, so nearby than their arms brush against hers as they walk. In their quiet, emotionally-stunted way, she knows they’re trying to look after her, and Jasper’s words from last night are still fresh in her mind:  _ you’re not alone, you never have been.  _ Sure, she’s hurting, but so is everyone else, and the least she can do is stick by her friends when they went to so much trouble to stick by her. Even when she did so little to deserve their loyalty. 

So instead, she breathes into the stupid disgusting cloth around their mouths, and tries very hard to focus on dragging one foot in front of the other. 

They arrive at Engineering without incident, passing only a couple people on their trek through the halls. Each time all three of them would tense up, ready for a fight, then relax again when the person completely failed to register their presence, and they could continue past them safely. 

When they turn the final corner into the Engineering Bay, Raven isn’t expecting the rush of emotion that comes upon her. 

She’s  _ missed _ this place. It might be the closest thing to a feeling of home she’s had in a long time. All the lights are off, only a weak amount of daylight managing to penetrate the filthy window on the far wall, casting the room in long, dark shadows. It’s eerie like this, empty and lifeless and unloved, dust settled over the surfaces. 

With a pang of longing, Raven realizes how much she’s come to expect that she can turn this corner and find Gina hard at work on her next invention. She should be right  _ there, _ sitting on the dented metal stool, bent double over the workbench. To the right, where the maps and papers and various calculations have been splayed out, Raven can picture Sinclair’s small form pouring over them, pushing up his sleeves every few minutes as they fall back down his arms. 

And Wick. Wick is everywhere in this room. His cot tucked along the side of the wall, his handwriting covering the glass writing pane, his tools left in a disordered heap on the workbench. She misses him. It’s not the same as the dull ache of grief she feels for Finn or Gina, but something sharper, edged with a cruel twist of hope that maybe, he might not be lost to her forever. 

With a clarity of thought that she hasn’t had in a long time, Raven wonders where Wick and Sinclair are now. She feels somehow that they have to still be alive, her long-lost friends. She needs them to be alive, these people who loved her, and who she refused to love back. They’re still alive, and they’re going to come back, if for no other reason than because Raven’s decided they will. And the Universe fucking owes her one at this point. 

“It’s so quiet,” Monty whispers.

“I guess the junkies out there haven’t made a lot of time for developing that water heater idea.”

“The better for us,” Raven mutters, indicating to the huge metal cylinder someone shoved just inside the door. 

“Come on, help me get this set up.”

Monty and Jasper fall into line, moving where Raven tells them to go, pulling down long coils of hosing and hooking everything up as she instructs them. It doesn’t take long before everything’s in place.

“Locked and loaded,” Jasper reports brightly, hopping up onto the workbench with a clatter. He sits on the edge, his feet dangling above the ground.  

“Great,” Raven replies, sitting on Wick’s rickety cot. “Now we wait for the signal.”

It takes a while before the radio finally crackles to life on Monty’s belt.

_ “Confirmed,”  _ Miller’s voice filters through, tinny and full of static. _ “Pike and the Council are secure.” _

“Acknowledged,” Monty chirps back. “Any trouble?”

_ “None,”  _ comes the immediate reply.  _ “We saw some civilians around the place, but none of them even looked at us, let alone noticing what we were up to.” _ A beat of silence on the radio.  _ “What about you guys?” _

“We’re fine,” Monty reports back, “ready to go on the signal.”

“Good luck.”

The radio goes silent again. No one speaks, but Raven feels comfortable in this room, with Monty and Jasper. She feels safe, maybe not in that wonderful, painless way she felt in the City of Light, but she’s among friends, in a familiar place, with a real purpose. It’s satisfying in a way nothing synthetic ever could be. 

“You really think this will work?” Monty asks after a while longer of waiting, incapable of keeping the skepticism from his tone.

Raven cocks one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It’s the best shot we’ve got, so we’d better hope it does.”

“What if we run out of water?”

“Worst that happens?” Jasper looks down on them from his seat on the workbench. “We all fall victim to the smoke, and wander around this place like zombies until the stash eventually burns up. Without Jaha and Alie to replace it, we’d detox eventually. Maybe in a couple weeks.” 

“I can’t recommend it,” Raven says dryly. “You thought the come down from a single exposure was bad? Times that by a few hundred.”

The radio bursts to life again.  _ “Confirmed,” _ Octavia’s voice this time,  _ “the camp has been disarmed. Repeat, all civvies have been disarmed. Phase Three is go.” _

“Phase Three go,” Monty repeats into the radio, his hand shaking now.

With a flourish, Jasper hops up to stand on the workbench, pushing himself to his tip-toes. Raven tosses him a philips-head and he sets to work easing open the Engineering Bay window. 

A look of anxiety crosses Monty’s face. “Relax,” Raven tells him, a hand on his shoulder. “it’ll be fine. Remember that one time we blew up a bridge with rocket fuel?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“That was  _ way _ more likely to kill us than this is,” Raven tells him bracingly, and fights a laugh at Monty’s answering grimace. 

With a loud crunch of glass on metal, Jasper finishes prising free the window from its frame. They have a perfect vantage point on the bonfire from here. With the window open, Raven can already see the enticing tendrils of white smoke whispering into the room. 

“We got lift off.” Jasper says. His voice is muffled by the covering on his mouth, but Raven can hear the grin in his words. “Hand me the hose, Monty.”

Obediently, Monty feeds the hose up to Jasper, who holds the nozzle out the window, his thumb prepped on the end of it to control the flow of water. Raven thinks the look of absolute glee on Jasper’s face is a little uncalled for, but she can’t help fighting a smile of her own at the sight of him. 

Reaching down, Raven sets up the water pump to go. This plan might suck, but they’ve had worse.

“Let ‘er rip.” 

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy March 19th 2150**

 

It’s been a long night.

Blood runs steadily down the back of Bellamy’s hand from a large gash on his forearm. Bruises are forming, purple and tender, on both his knees, and his vision has started to swim with exhaustion. The door to one of the Ark quarters screeches on its hinges as Bellamy hauls it closed. The lock engages with an electric  _ snick _ . Inside, a handful of Arkers are asleep on the floor. Wisps of Jasper’s remedy is curling through the air vent into the room. Bellamy hopes it will be enough to take the edge off, when the people inside finally come around. If not, well, they’ll deal with that when the time comes.

Pike and the rest of the council members had been the priority for them to secure, but as soon as the fires has been doused with water, it became very clear that they needed to quarantine a lot more people. Those that saw the fire extinguished were the worst. They lashed out immediately, fighting tooth and nail with whatever they had at hand. Fortunately, none of them had any serious weapons, but the blood still dripping from Bellamy’s arm was proof of their resourcefulness. Finally, they’d managed to lure them all, with promise of more drug, into different quarters before knocking them out. It was, maybe, a reckless use of their limited supply of tranquilizers, but no one had been able to come up with a better idea.

It had been slow going, sedating or gentling coaxing or flat out pushing each member of camp into an enclosed space. Monty and Jasper had taken over from there, replacing Alie’s drug with their own remedy, pumping the smoke into the vents. Bellamy has to admit that the leaf’s doing wonders at numbing the pain of his own injuries, and the familiar burn of the drug’s side effects. Clarke was right, letting Alie drug him was probably a bit reckless, but he doesn’t regret it for a second.

With the last of the Arkers locked up, Bellamy’s somewhat at a loss. He wanders through the deserted Ark corridors, the slam of his boots echoing back at him as he walks. Distantly, he can hear the whinny of horses, as Lincoln and Octavia tend to the stables. Mercifully, the drug doesn’t seem to have affected them. Just as well; the last thing they need right now is a stampede.

As he passes by Medical, colours spark and dance in his vision like a sudden explosion of fireworks. He pulls him up short, and looks inside. Their range is small now, so he’s not surprised to find Clarke already watching him from her seat at Abby’s usual desk.

Her eyes flick immediately to the blood coating his arm.

“That’ll need to be cleaned,” is all she says by way of greeting. Standing, she gives a small motion for him to follow and he falls into step behind her.

He takes up a seat on one of the examination beds as Clarke goes to raid her mother’s medical stores.

“Have we done a headcount?” he asks, watching her. Their range, it seems, can now stretch the full length of Medical. It’s not much, but it still feels like a victory.

“Harper just finished,” answers Clarke, turning back with a small bottle of antiseptic and a clean cloth in one hand. “There were a few unaccounted for at first, but then Miller found them down by the vegetable patch.”

“So is that it? Is the camp secured?”

“Yup. All 450.” Clarke’s voice is strained as she pours a dash of antiseptic onto the cloth.

“Are you okay?”

She holds his forearm steady and starts to dab the disinfectant on the cut. It stings, but Bellamy doesn’t flinch or make any complaint.

As their eyes meet, he can clearly see the pinch of doubt in her face for the first time all night.   

“This place feels like a prison.”

“I’ll take a prison over a zombie-infested ghost town any day.”

Clarke nods. Bellamy takes a guess at the real reason for Clarke’s uncertainty at the end of this successful day.

“How’s your mom doing?” Bellamy himself had helped Clarke move Abby and Kane into holding cells while they were still in the grips of the drug.

“She seems calm for now, I’ll bring her some dinner in a bit.” Clarke looks down, focusing her energy on Bellamy’s arm as she wraps a bandage tightly around it. “I didn’t think it would be that hard,” she continues quietly, “seeing her completely under the drug like that. I don’t know, I guess I just figured, once I got to her, she would be better. She would be her again. We rescued all these people and none of them even want us here.”

“Maybe not yet. But they will. Coming off of the drug, especially after that long under, is bound to be tough. They may not be themselves yet, but they will be. All we have to do now is give them time and keep them safe. They’ll be okay.”

“I know, you’re right.” Clarke mumbles as she finishes tying the end of the bandage off. When she looks back up, she manages to give him a genuine, if small, smile.

Bellamy gestures to the finished bandage on his arm. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying the story! Lots still to come...


	22. March 20th 2150: Comedown

 

**Abby, March 20th 2150**

 

She comes back to herself in stages.

First, and for so long, there was only the colour. She had thought, before, that the City of Light had been a place. To hear Alie and Jaha tell it, she’d imagined gleaming glass spires and and a pristine lake, glinting like a mirror under a sun that never sets. That was before she knew better.

The City of Light was better than some empty paradise: the City of Light was _home_. She was still in the Ark, still on Earth, but everything was right where it should be. Everyone she loved was safe, she knew no fear, no worry, none of the relentless press of anxiety on her chest. There was just Kane, an overwhelming sense of peace, and a world splitting at the seams with colour.

Next, there was an itch. She would start to notice the other people around her, and wonder whether they too have felt the joy of the City of Light. She wanted nothing more in the world than for others to join her in this safe haven. So she would ask them, “have you been to the City of Light?”. The others would nod and smile and share their own love for the City, and together they would come to find Alie, standing watch by a gorgeous, pluming bonfire. They would breath deep, and all would be well again.

Sometimes, Clarke would be there. Laughing and smiling and telling Abby that she’s _okay now, Mom. You don’t have to worry anymore._ So Abby would smile, and hug her daughter, and return with Kane to the safety of the City of Light.

Once, Jake was there. He told Abby, in his calm, stalwart way that he _forgives you, Abby. You deserve all the peace and love that comes to you._ That _you did so well with Clarke, you should be so proud._ He would squeeze her shoulder and give her his blessing, and Abby felt no more guilt, no more regret. Only love.

Days, or weeks, or years passed.

One day, Clarke came back. She takes Abby by the arm and pulls her upright. At her side, Bellamy is likewise guiding Kane by the arm. That’s okay. Abby follows her daughter willingly. Because Kane and Clarke and Clarke’s match are all here. Her family is together, so why should Abby worry? She smiles with pleasure.

Except Clarke isn’t smiling anymore. Her face is dirtier than it had been, her movements sharp and angry. Why is she upset? That doesn’t seem right.

“Have you been to the City of Light?”

Clarke just flinches and ignores her, but that must be it, Abby thinks. They must be going to see Alie and breathe from the white fire. Then Clarke will be happy again.

“Would you like to join us in the City of Light?” Kane asks, apparently thinking the same as Abby.

“Oh yeah,” Bellamy replies. “We’re going there now.”

Abby and Kane smile again. Good. She’d thought so.

They do not go to the bonfire. Abby will never see the bonfire again.

It takes some time for the truth of this to set in. She sits in her new room for a while, unconcerned by the bars on the door or the guards with guns pacing on the other side, or the lock that she cannot open. Why should any of this worry her? She is safe, and her family is safe, and Kane is with her.

Then comes the itch. It starts slow. She asks about the City of Light and gets no answer from the guard. They do not smile, they do not motion for her to join them on their walk to the bonfire. They just glare and remain silent. At first this puzzles her, then it starts to frighten her, then it infuriates her.

Unlike the itch, which approached like a distantly rolling thunder, the rage comes on swift and hard as lightning. Suddenly, she hates _everyone._ She hates the guards, and the room she now recognizes as a prison, and the cold floor and even Kane, hunched over and glaring on the other side of the cell.

When Clarke comes back for a third time, it takes every ounce of Abby’s self-control not to throttle her mutinous, traitorous, lying horror-show of a daughter on the spot.

“I brought you some dinner,” Clarke says stiffly.

“Clarke.” Abby’s voice stays calm, calling on every reserve of strength she has left. “You don’t need to do this.” She indicates reasonably to the bars of the cell.

Her daughter’s features fracture in acute guilt. This might be easier than Abby thought. “It’s only temporary, Mom. Just while the worst of it passes. Once the drug is out of your system we’ll be able to let you out, and Jasper has something that can help. I’ll bring you some-”

 _Drug?_ Abby has to fight another flare of blinding rage. The City of Light is not a drug - it’s a _cure!_

“I understand,” Abby lies instead, her insides boiling with suppressed emotion, “but I feel fine, sweetheart. Don’t you need my help to look after the others? I’m sure there are lots of people who could use a doctor.”

Clarke hesitates, Abby can see it in her dull, watery eyes. Clarke’s hand reaches out slowly, towards the lock.

 _That’s right, just open the door…_ Abby knows something must have changed here. The beautiful bonfire must be gone, maybe Alie has abandoned them, but it doesn’t matter. Wherever she is, Abby will track her down, prove her loyalty, demonstrate her commitment to the City of Light. All she needs is for her moronic daughter to just open the fucking door...

Behind her, Kane - the _idiot_ \- has shot to his feet and rushed forward to Abby’s side. “If she’s getting out, I want out too. I NEED-”

And that’s it. Clarke’s hand has withdrawn, her resolve redoubling.

Furious, Abby whips around and slaps Kane as hard as she can across the cheek. “I was SO CLOSE!” she roars, her voice twisted, spit flying from her mouth. “If you had just kept your damn mouth shut-”

She never finishes her threat. From behind, a pressure jams hard into her lower back, an electric shock radiating out from the point of the taser and brings her to her knees.

“We gotta get these two into solitaries,” she hears a man’s voice through a haze of pain, then blacks out.

When she comes back to herself for a final time, Abby finds herself in her own quarters, alone, huddled in a corner of the room. A pungent smoke is filtering through the air vent, and she feels much, much calmer than she has in a while, though it’s not the same as before. Delicious white oblivion has clouded her thoughts for so long that she’d stopped even noticing it was there. Only now, without it, does Abby realize how much she’d been missing.

Her memories flood through her. They’re painful, and they’re stressful, and they’re full of guilt and so many wrongs she can never put right. But there’s beauty there too - Clarke’s birth, whole and healthy and completely perfect. Or her fifth birthday, skipping through the halls of the Ark with Wells’ hand in hers. Or Abby’s first moments on Earth, salt in the air and wind on her face and a world saturated in more colours than she’d ever seen in her life, with Marcus by her side.

She drags herself up from off the floor. Every fibre of Abby’s body feels weak with an exhaustion that goes bone-deep.  She feels as though she’s been hollowed out with a spoon, left empty and cold, but she’s alive, and so is her family, so that’ll have to be enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one today - thanks for reading!


	23. March 24th 2150: New Arrivals

**Roan, March 24th 2150**

 

The table is set down in the centre of the room with a mighty thud that reverberates around the walls at the top of PolisTower. Metellus and Cimber, the Blue Cliff twins, adjust the table from either end, the heavy legs scraping against the floor. Eventually, they step back, the vast Council Table perfectly centred in the room.

It feels to Roan as though a terrible weight has been lifted from his chest. The Throne Room is gone, and the Council Room of Polis has finally been restored.

Roan moves forward to inspect the markings all along the table. It is even more magnificent than he remembered. A map of the Clans takes up most of the centre of the table, carved in exquisite detail into the thick dark wood. Along the outside edge are evenly-spaced carvings of the symbols of the Twelve Clans. There are chairs to match, similarly marked, one for each of the twelve Clan representatives, and then, of course, one for the Commander as well.

“The problem with these chairs is they’re just so uncomfortable.” Roan looks up to see Tolk smiling across the other side of the table, squirming in the Podakru chair with his legs hooked over the armrest. “My grandmother always used to say she snuck in a cushion to the meetings. Now I know why.”

Around the room, others come and go as they finish bringing in the rest of the chairs from where they were discovered in storage. Metellus and Cimber leave in silence, passing Echo and Indra as they enter, each carrying a chair. Echo looks over her shoulder at Tolk as she passes, glowering.

“I’ll make you a lot more uncomfortable in a moment if you don’t start helping us carry up more chairs.”

Roan smiles to himself as he watches Tolk leap up in mock terror and follow after Echo to get more, both swiping at each other good naturedly. It has been a hard few weeks, full of brutal decisions and hard truths. But as he stands here, looking out over a newly hopeful and excited Polis, Roan can’t help but feel optimistic. Maybe it will all have been worth it in the end.

He mounts the short steps to where the throne used to sit. The space is empty now, the curtains thrown back. The chair still belongs to the Commander, but it will sit alongside the Clans at the Council table, not elevated above the rest. Gingerly, Roan edges towards the window, relishing the whip of the wind against his cheeks.  

“King Roan?”

He turns around at the sound of his name to find Indra watching him from the foot of the small steps. Her eyes are sharp and hold a note of accusation. They haven’t been alone together once, since everything happened. Roan knows, even though Indra does not say it, that some part of her still regrets their action against Lexa. He also knows, though Indra does not say it, that she suspects Roan will make some kind of play for the throne.

She’s wrong, but telling her so will achieve nothing. The only way Roan will be able to demonstrate his devotion to a devolved governance will be through his actions. It will be slow, but he will earn Indra’s trust. And he will be worthy of it.  

“Indra,” he replies, his tone calm and friendly. “Come look. The view from here…” He trails off, a motion far below drawing his attention.

A large torch is moving through the street, hardly larger than an ant from this distance, but belching smoke, much more than a normal torch would. It’s carried by two people, moving towards the Tower in an unnaturally straight line. There is something about them. Something off. Foreboding creeps into Roan’s skin.

“Echo! Tolk!” Roan turns, calling their names only to find them both trying to fit through the door, each carrying a chair at the same time. They look up at him, a little sheepish at their game. “I think we have some visitors down below, go see what it is.”

They both nod and turn to go, but not before Tolk gives his chair a little shove, pushing it into the room ahead of Echo’s.    

Indra moves to Roan’s side and follows his gaze out the window. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, assume danger when there is none. Paranoia is a sickness, impossible to shake once caught. And yet every muscle in his shoulders have tensed, his blood thrumming in his veins, as he watches the steady progress of the strangers towards the steps of the Tower.

An almighty crash sounds from behind them. Roan and Indra twist in unison to find the source of the disruption. Two figures had clearly been in the process of bursting dramatically into the room, only to trip unceremoniously over the chairs Tolk and Echo left right in the doorway.

“Who are you?” Roan demands, watching as they extract themselves from the chairs and stumble forward.  

Torn between bewilderment and irritation, Roan crosses his arms over his chest, regarding them both. He’s never seen either of these two in his life. One is a young woman, lean and keen-eyed, a jagged tattoo bisecting her round face.  _ Sankru _ _,_ if he were to guess, by the weathering of her clothes and the marking under her right eye. The other is a man, lean and hollowed out, who looks like a strong wind might knock him over. Everything, from the position of his feet on the floor to the sweep of his unblemished cheeks, is wrong. This man would not last more than one blow in a fight. If he’s  _ Sankru  _ too, he must be very rich to have avoided dying this long.  

“Okay can we skip over the whole introduction and explanation part,” the boy speaks first, his voice skittering like a stone over ice. “Let’s just go straight to the part where you believe me when I tell you that your life is in danger and we need to move NOW.”

Indra moves forward, towards the strange pair, eyeing up the boy. “You’re  _ Skaikru .”  Of course _ _,_ Roan should have guessed. That explains a lot.

“Technically. Yes. Guilty. But I really like to think of myself more as an independent in all of this. And okay I realize you probably would like to kill me and I am quickly starting to question my sanity in coming to you at all, but this man and woman who just arrived are seriously bad news and so as much as you may hate me and I for sure hate you, can we both agree that they are worse? Also, I figured you might have a way to get to safety and that you might want to save your people or something.”

When the boy is finally finished talking, Roan looks to the girl by his side. He addresses her.

“And you are?”

“Emori.”

“ _ Kom  Sangedakru ?” _

The girl gives a sharp nod, but when she sees Roan’s eyes fall down to the large bandage wrapping her left hand she quickly moves it behind her back. He hadn’t noticed that before. Interesting. If she’s one of the outcast, why would she risk walking straight into the Council Room uninvited?

A door at the other end of the room flies open and Commander Cinna marches in, flanked on either side by a half-dozen of her guard. With her white hair braided and thrown over one shoulder, she looks ethereal, exalted, in her dark Commander’s robes.

“What is this?” Cinna’s voice is delicate steel, like a fine blade.   

“Speak. What are you doing here?” Roan directs the Commander’s question to Emori. The boy talks too much and still hasn’t said anything.

“These people who have arrived in Polis, they have this drug. We’ve seen it at work, it destroys people. Somehow, they have managed to put it in the fire that they carry with them. All through the city anyone who has breathed the smoke will become infected. We came here to warn anyone we could find before it’s too late.”   

“So yeah,” the boy starts speaking again, “In a wild and seriously uncharacteristic moment, we decided to play at being the heroes and coming to warn you, a move I am regretting more and more each moment that we stand here doing nothing.  _ We need to move now .” _

“Heroes?” Indra raises an eyebrow at this. “Your interest in coming here, then, is not because the deepest tunnels can only be accessed through the Tower’s secret passages? Because you  _ cannot _ escape on your own?”

The pair of them shift, twin expressions of discomfort on their faces. “It can’t be both?” The boy asks at last. “You don’t really have to believe us if you don’t want to. If you want to just show us the way to the deepest tunnels and we can just be on our merry way-”

“Silence.” Cinna orders, and it is done.  

Graceful as a dancer, she turns away from the pair of them and sweeps up the steps to stand by the ledge of the wide window. Roan moves to join her, peering down. On the steps of the Tower he watches as the tiny figures of Tolk and Echo emerge and intercept the flame carriers. Then they walk right past them. “That can’t be right.” Roan mutters to himself. Tolk and Echo didn’t even raise a finger to stop them walking right into the Tower. Both of them are just… standing there... aimless on the steps. Something is very wrong here.

“We move to the tunnels. Now.”

Indra looks around at him in surprise.

“Echo and Tolk just let those strangers pass right by, as if they were hypnotized. They are coming up here.” Roan turns to Cinna, who is still frowning down at what they just saw. “We have to get to safety, Commander.”

Indra protests. “Why not face them here? We can’t just abandon the Tower to them.”

“We can’t face a thing we don’t yet understand.” There isn’t time for this argument. He sympathizes with Indra, of course. After everything they have done, to relinquish the Council Room now, after they are so close-

“For now, we must live to fight another day. We will learn how best to defeat them in time.” Cinna’s voice speaks with all the authority of the Commander. She may not be an all powerful Commander like Lexa set herself up as, but the spirit of the Commander is within her, and that spirit is always a guiding light for them all.

At her word, they all start to move quickly towards the exit.

Roan can hear the screech of the elevator, slowly rising from the base of the Tower. “They are already on their way up. Quickly, the ladder.” He motions Cinna forward first, the two outsiders right on her heels. “Keep going until you can go no farther. It leads right down into the tunnels.” 

Part of Roan aches as he walks away from the Council Chamber. He swears an oath to himself that he will do whatever it takes to defeat these intruders and take the Tower back once more. For all their people.

Cinna, her guards, the strangers, and Indra all slide quickly and quietly down the ladder at the centre of the building. The narrow space is dank and dark and only used in emergencies, but Roan figures this counts. Divided only by one wall, he can hear the elevator bringing the enemy up, as they all swiftly descend.

When they reach ground level, however, Roan hesitates. He thinks of Echo. And Tolk. He can’t just leave them. Not without at least trying. They’ve lost a lot of people this past month. But not Echo. She’s the closest thing to family he’s got left. He’s not losing her too.

As he steps off the ladder at ground level, he hears Indra calling from below him.

“I’m not leaving them,” he calls back, not waiting for her answer.

He doesn’t stop, but as he emerges into the main foyer, he’s surprised to see that Indra has followed him out.

“Come on then,” she responds simply to his questioning look. “Let’s be quick about it.”

Remembering what Emori had said about smoke infecting the city, Roan pulls his fur collar up over his nose and mouth and motions for Indra to do the same.

Echo and Tolk are easy to find. They haven’t moved from the steps where they met the two with the fire.

Roan runs up to Echo, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Echo!” Her eyes look at him but it is clear they are seeing something else. “ECHO!” He tries again.

_ “ Taron . _ _”_ Her voice is barely more than a whisper. At the sound of his brother’s name Roan’s heart stops cold.

“No, I’m sorry Echo. I really am so sorry. It’s me, Roan.” Roan’s voice cracks with desperation. “I’m sorry he’s not the one who’s here right now, but please Echo, don’t leave me alone here.”

“R-Roan?” Echo blinks up at him.

Relief surges through Roan at the sad but coherent look in her eyes.   

“Wha-” she starts, but he grabs her by the hand and pulls her quickly towards the hidden tunnel entry.

“Come on.”

He looks over to see Indra similarly dragging Tolk away from the steps.

A small victory as they head into an impossible fight.


	24. April 2nd 2150: Help Required

 

**Echo, April 2nd 2150**

 

Pain shoots through her hand as her fist collides with the rough wall of the tunnel.

“It’s a stupid plan and it won’t work!” Echo fumes in impotent rage.

“Indra and Cinna believe that it will.” Tolk speaks gently, edging slowly towards her.

“Well they are wrong too!”

“Maybe,” Tolk concedes, “but Echo, everything else we’ve tried has failed. We need help. Roan believes he can get it.”

“It’s too dangerous.” Echo slumps down to the ground, stubborn. “Plus, it’s a waste of time.”

“Well, it’s done now. Roan is gone.” Tolk slides down beside her, his back pressed to the filthy tunnel wall, his forearms resting lazily on his up-thrust knees, “and I for one hope it works. I’m getting pretty sick of this view.” He gestures loosely at the dull, dimly lit, putrid tunnel.

Echo can feel her heart beat uncomfortably in her chest, full of an anxiety she can’t place.

“So?” Tolk asks after a moment, “What did you see?”

Echo flinches at the absurdity of the question at a time like this. Like they don’t have enough to deal with right now. “That’s a very personal question.”

“Yeah. I know. It’s also a very interesting one, and it looks like we’ve got some time to kill down here, so we might as well talk about something interesting.”

Echo looks away, refusing to meet Tolk’s inquisitive eyes.

“Plus, you just slammed your first into that wall pretty hard and – just a guess – but I don’t think Roan’s quest for reinforcements is what you’re so mad about.”

She opens her mouth to tell him to fuck off, but as she does the words die in her throat. She has felt this simmering anger in her chest ever since the smoke. The truth is, she hasn’t spoken about him to anyone, not even so much as said his name aloud since it happened. It’s been almost a year, now, and she’s barely even let herself  _ think _ about him. She’s sectioned that part of herself off completely for so long that she thought she’d done with it for good. Seeing him again in the smoke, alive and healthy, has rattled her completely. She feels out of control now, not herself. Maybe it would help to talk about it.

“I saw my  _ keryon-ai _ _.”_ She starts simply. “He’s dead now.”

Tolk seems to have expected this. “Who was he?”

She takes a breath. “Prince Taron of Azgeda.” She watches as Tolk’s eyes go wide. He didn’t know. How could he, when it had never been officially announced.

“My mother was one of the Queen’s Guard. I was born within the walls of the palace and I could see colour from the moment I first opened my eyes. Taron was thirteen at the time. He said the colour arrived slowly for him, a little stronger every day before my birth. He couldn’t figure it out. He used to tell me he thought he might be matched to a ghost that roamed the halls.” A wry smile crosses Tolk’s face, but he doesn’t interrupt. “When he realized who I was at my birth, and told everyone, they were all nervous. No one knew what to think. An infant is hardly a suitable match for a crowned Prince. But he was the heart and soul of Azgeda, and no one could refuse him anything. So for the most part they left us alone. As a baby I would cry whenever he went too far away from me, so he stayed by my side. He raised me. He taught me how to speak, how to ride, how to fight. Everything. As I got older I started to pester him to kiss me, and to… well, do more than just kiss me. He never would. Then, one week before my eighteenth birthday, when we were supposed to announce our engagement, Lexa demanded that all the Kings and Queens of the Clans bow before her, and the rebellion broke out.”

Echo finishes there. Tolk doesn’t need to be told the story of the Azgeda rebellion. Everyone knows how that story ends.  

He waits for a moment and then asks tentatively, “What did you see when you saw him in the smoke?”

“I saw our wedding.” Echo’s voice breaks, hot tears pooling in her eyes. She tries to drive them back, but they fall anyway, flowing freely down her cheeks. “The wedding I planned and looked forward to for eighteen years of my life, but never got to have.”

Tolk edges closer to her and puts his arm tentatively over her shoulder. She curls into his comforting presence and feels an immense release wash over her as she sobs into his shoulder.

She doesn’t know how long they sit there like that.

Finally she hears him say, “I saw a stranger in a smoke.”

Echo blinks. “How?”

“I don’t know, I’d never seen him before – trust me, I’d remember a smile like his. He was beautiful, an angel straight from the heavens." Tolk’s voice takes on a depth of longing she’s never heard in him before. "Maybe one day he’ll come down to earth to meet me.”

Echo finds herself smiling for what feels like the first time in a very long time. “He would be a fool not to.”

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy, April 2nd 2150**

 

Bellamy sets off on his daily walk through camp. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket, gazing skyward. Clouds, fluffy and white, puff across the clear morning sky. Sunlight peeks through the trees, rising into the sky earlier and earlier each morning. The air is crisp, but the bite of cold in the air has gone. They’ve survived the winter.

It’s taken some time, but the camp is starting to come back to life now. Yesterday, they stopped delivering food to people’s quarters and insisted that they come to the mess hall for meals again. And they did. One by one, everyone emerged from their self-imposed isolation. Conversation was halting and awkward, but people seemed to respond well to each other. Jackson played the piano after dinner, and Mel sang, and the whole camp managed to eat and drink and laugh with each other, while Bellamy and his people breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Pike is still in one of the holding cells along with a handful of some of his biggest supporters who have remained outwardly hostile to anyone who tries comes near them. It’s not a long term solution and they will need to come to a decision about what to do with them soon. Just one of the many new responsibilities weighing on Bellamy these days.   

Across the yard, Bellamy spots a group of guards, overseen by Dave Miller, clearing away the last vestiges of the bonfires. Dave nods to Bellamy as he passes, before turning his attention back to the cleanup effort. At the bottom of the path, Bellamy can see a pair of the few remaining Farm Station survivors down by the vegetable patch, resetting the wire mesh encasing the farmland. It still remains to be seen whether anything will take root down there, but it’s been raining on and off for days, and according to Bryan their chances are as good as they’re going to get. By the stables, he finds Lincoln and Octavia leading a horse riding class for some of the kids, who watch the animals with awestruck fascination.

Optimism these days seems foolish at best, but it’s hard to look around at the Arkers, all working together to restore the damage done to the camp, and not feel at least a little bit hopeful.

Bellamy continues his walk until he comes to the base of Arkadia’s outer wall. He passes Harper, already on guard duty at the base of the gate, and climbs the makeshift ladder to the top of the wall. He’s unsurprised to find Clarke standing at the top, waiting for him. She’s made a habit of joining him for his morning patrol of the wall. In fact, she’s been joining him for most of the things he had to do in a day. Or, come to think of it, he might be the one joining her. Either way, they’ve been spending their time taking care of Arkadia side-by-side, and Bellamy can’t shake the feeling that both of them have been trying to make up for lost time. Their range still isn’t what it had been, but when they’re together the world shines brighter than ever.

“Morning.”

“Hey.”

They fall into step together, walking around the top of the wall. Both of them keep their eyes trained on the horizon outside of camp. He’d forgotten, when Clarke had been in Polis, how much clearer the morning looks in colour, how much more  _ real _ the world feels.

“I spoke to my mom this morning.”

“Oh? How is she?”

“Better. Much better. She says according to her tests all traces of the drug have been out of everyone’s system for at least a week now.”

“A week?” Bellamy repeats, surprised. “Until yesterday no one even wanted to leave their quarters.”

“She thinks everyone’s been depressed. They saw themselves living a perfect, happy life. Even with the drug out of their system, and the comedown effects gone, they still have to face the fact that there isn’t much to be excited about in this life right now.”

Bellamy lets Clarke’s words sink in. He wants to protest, but he’s witnessed the morale around camp too. He may be optimistic for them, but they need to be optimistic about their own future too.

He’s trying to think how best to voice this thought when Clarke stops in her tracks. Her hand grips his arm tight, pulling at his attention. She points out into the distance, towards the treeline.

“Someone’s coming.”

Bellamy follows her line of sight. Sure enough, there is someone, a dark shadow on horseback, streaking across the open field from the northeast.

Clarke pulls down the binoculars from the watch station and looks through them.

“It’s Roan." 

“The Ice Nation Prince who took you captive?” Bellamy’s mind is already reeling with the implications of this. A single rider, belting towards Arkadia like all of hell is chasing him. It hardly screams of an oncoming attack. But if the Prince of the Ice Nation isn’t here to attack them, then whatever he might want, it can’t possibly be good.

“He’s King now.”

“Even better. What does he want?”

Clarke gives him a wary look. “Let’s go find out.”

By the time Bellamy and Clarke get back to the gates, a commotion has already started. News of a rider clearly spread fast. And Harper, from her position by the gate, already has her hands full trying to hold everyone in line.

Bellamy signals to Harper to open the gate. A moment later Miller appears at Bellamy’s side, awaiting instruction before Bellamy has even had the chance to look around for him.

“Don’t let anyone else past these gates after us. No matter what. Understand?”

Miller nods quickly and moves into place beside Harper, blocking the gate from the gathering crowd.

The circulation of the guns has been carefully controlled since they were rounded up during the liberation of Arkadia. Only guards on duty carry any live ammunition, so it falls to Harper to press her rifle into Bellamy’s hands before he steps outside.

“Just in case,” she tells him, “I think you might need it more than me.”

Bellamy doesn’t argue as he accepts the gun and checks the chamber, giving Harper a small nod. At his side, Clarke falls into pace beside him as they march out to meet their new arrival.

Roan has already dismounted a few yards from the gate and is waiting for them to approach.

Unspoken, the pair of them come to a halt a safe distance away. Close enough to speak, not close enough for Roan to attack.

“Clarke, Bellamy, thank you for meeting me.” Roan’s voice is wrecked with pure exhaustion. He looks as though his horse had dragged him the last mile to camp. Barely standing, blinking slowly, he’s the picture of desperation. If he were anyone else, Bellamy might feel sorry for him.

“Last time I saw you, King Roan, you were stabbing Lexa in the back.” Clarke’s voice is clipped and fierce. Like Bellamy, she clearly sees the state of him, and has decided she doesn’t care.

“That’s funny, I seem to remember something about a stabbing last time I saw you too,” Bellamy quips.

“I- I’m sorry about all of that. I mean you no harm.” He advances a step towards them and Bellamy instinctively raises his gun.

“How can you possibly expect us to believe you?” Barely controlled rage fills Clarke’s voice. “After what you  _ did-“ _

“Please!” Roan’s control seems as frayed as the rest of him. His voice cracks, pleading. “I need your help. Polis has fallen under some madwoman’s spell. You’re the only hope we have left.”

Bellamy shares a glance with Clarke next to him.  _ Her. _ Bellamy’s heart sinks. They’re finally rid of her, only for the problem to come right back to their doorstep all over again. But he can see it in Clarke’s eyes, the regret. They’re responsible for what happened to Polis and really, they always knew they would have to face Alie again, sooner or later. They both know what they have to do.

Bellamy looks back at Roan, takes very careful aim, and shoots.

Roan reels back with a bit off scream, clutching his upper arm where the bullet went through-and-through.

Bellamy lowers his weapon. “Okay. Now we’re listening.”

 

\--

 

They escort him, with the convenient excuse of a bullet wound, to talk in private in the medical bay. The crowd shouts from all sides, but they still stand back as Bellamy and Clarke pass, escorting Roan on each side, Harper, Miller, and Bryan follow behind to stand guard.

When they reach Medical, Clarke keeps going inside, dropping Roan unceremoniously onto a medical bed. Bellamy stays by the door, handing Harper’s gun back to her.

“No one gets in,” he tells her, echoing his earlier order. Harper nods resolutely. Turning to Miller, “see if you can track down O, Lincoln, Monty, Jasper, Raven…” Bellamy hesitates, “… and Kane and Abby. Bring them all back here then join us.”

“No sweat, I saw all of them up at the gate.”

“Great. Quick as you can.”

Miller nods, and leaves in a rush. Bellamy closes the door again, leaving Harper and Bryan standing guard outside.

_ “ERGH. _ Do you feel  _ better _ now?” Roan moans as Clarke sets to work cleaning his arm.

“I do, actually.”

Bellamy can’t help smiling at the smug look on Clarke’s face.

“Clarke, you have to understand. What happened to Lexa-”

“You don’t want to talk to me about Lexa.”

“I’m trying to explain. It wasn’t personal-”

“Bullshit.”

Roan closes his eyes, wincing in pain and clearly on the brink of collapse from exhaustion. “Fine, you’re right,” he sighs, “it was personal. She wanted our loyalty, our armies, our land, and our resources, but gave nothing back. She was our Commander, and she sold us out to the Sky People. She chose you. Of course it was personal.”

“She had a plan,” Clarke’s voice is a little tight, but no other emotion shows on her face. “We were going to fix it…”

“What does it matter, now?” asks Roan without heat. There’s no fight in his words, just resignation. “What’s done is done.”

Before Clarke can produce a reply, the metal door of the Medical Bay is wrenched open, and the room fills with everyone Bellamy had sent Miller to seek. Miller himself enters last and closes the door behind them. The others take up various positions around the room, Monty and Jasper hopping up onto one of the empty examination beds, Raven levering herself down into the desk chair, Lincoln and Octavia taking up guard positions on either side of Roan’s bed. Kane and Abby stay standing and tense just inside the door. Bellamy sees the moment Abby realizes that Roan’s been shot, but she doesn’t move to intervene as Clarke gives Roan something for the pain and begins to sew up the wound.

“Alright,” Jasper says, swinging his feet. “The gang’s all here. What’s going on?”

“Tell us what happened,” Bellamy instructs Roan, “from the beginning.”

The story sounds all too familiar.

When Roan finishes his tale, there is no discussion. As far as Bellamy can see, there’s no need to discuss it. This could be the key to everything, the bargaining chip they’ve been waiting for since the moment they arrived on Earth. The way forward is crystal clear.

Everyone waits for Clarke to speak first.

“Alright,” she says into the weighty silence. “We’ll help you. We faced the same corruption of our population here, and we know how to recover from it.”

Roan meets her eye. “And in return?”

“In return, we want a place at the table. A real one this time. We want to be the Thirteenth Clan, recognized and approved by all twelve of the Clans. We want the rights to our own land.  _ This _ land.”    

“This land is already spoken for.”

Clarke refuses to flinch. “I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

For one tense moment neither of them blink. Then the ghost of a smile twitches on Roan’s face.

“I’m sure we can.”

A ripple of excitement runs through the room.

“So now I guess we plan Alie-Jaha Takedown part two,” Jasper says, hopping down from his perch.

“Wait,” Kane’s voice carries from the back of the room, weary and slow. “We’ve been through this before. I still have the brand on my arm to prove it.” He looks to Roan. “For the sake of argument, let’s say you could convince Polis and the Twelve Clans to accept us…”

“That would be only half the battle,” Roan nods, catching Kane’s meaning. “Last time, your people proved as much a barrier to peace as mine.”

Bellamy flinches at the reminder, but he agrees. “Kane’s right. It’s no good us having the support of all the Grounder clans, when we don’t have the support of our own people.”

“You do have their support,” Monty protests.

“Do we?” Bellamy presses, then turning back to speak to Clarke. “We took control of this camp by force, and yes we had to do that to save them all. But if we’re really going to lead these people, we need them behind us, we need them to choose us. We have to do it better this time.”

Bellamy didn’t mean it as a rebuke, but he sees Kane duck his head all the same, Abby placing a hand on his arm.

“So what do you want us to do?” Clarke asks, drawing his attention back to her.

“Well for starters, I think we should talk to them.”

They’re easy to find. All of Arkadia has come out to learn what’s going on with the mysterious Grounder meeting inside their camp. The courtyard is packed with people. As Bellamy and Clarke move into the centre of the yard, a hush falls over the crowd. Everyone waits to hear what they will say.

“People of Arkadia,” Bellamy calls to the assembly, “We have a chance now for real, lasting peace here on the ground. But before we make any decision, you have a right to hear about the future of our home.” There are mumbles in the crowd, but no one interrupts. “A small, voluntary group of us are going to Polis at first light tomorrow. They are in need of aid, and we are going to provide it.” The mumbles grow louder. “In exchange, we will enter into an agreement of peace with the Grounder Clans. We will engage in trade, learn from them, work  _ with  _ them. This is the only way we keep our home, the only way we move forward-”

“Where is Pike?” a faceless voice yells from the crowd. Several others echo the demand.

“Pike is a coward!” Bellamy roars, silencing the cries. “He refused to face his enemies, or to seek a path of peace, choosing instead to slaughter them in the dead of night. He waged a war he had no chance of winning, and he let the real threat of Alie’s drug take hold of this camp right under his nose. He is not fit to be Chancellor.”     

The crowd murmurs their agreement. They’re with him on that at least, which feels like a victory.

“So who will lead us? Kane?” Another voice rises above the rest.

“Kane’s time is done. He may have helped bring you select few to the ground safely, but he lied about a lot of things along the way. He lost your faith and has done nothing to restore it.”

The murmurs grow to shouts. “So who, then?”

Bellamy catches Clarke’s eye, standing next to him. She gives him a small smile of support.

“We would like to put forward ourselves as candidates for joint Chancellor.”

A very different noise ripples through the crowd this time.

“And who the hell are you?” A rough voice erupts from the centre of the crowd.

Bellamy is caught off guard. After all,  _ who is he?  _ A failed cadet and a janitor. What credentials does he have for the job of Chancellor?

“But you’re  _ children.” _ Another concerned voice calls from somewhere.  

Bellamy opens his mouth to try and protest, but another voice answers for him.

“Hey, that’s Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin you’re talking to, show some fucking respect.” It’s Raven’s voice, brash and full of life. “You all owe them your lives. More than once.”

“No one knows more about surviving down here on the ground then them.” Miller’s voice pipes up from the other side of the courtyard. “They were figuring out how to negotiate with Grounders while Kane was still lying about how much air was left on the Ark.”

“They faced a  _ Trikru  _ army on the battlefield and won. That’s certainly something Pike never even tried to do.” Bellamy turns again, in time to catch Octavia’s eye as she finishes speaking.

“They took down the Mountain and rescued everyone inside.” Harper’s voice is strong and filled with pride.   

“When all of Arkadia fell victim to Alie and Jaha’s drug, they were the ones to come to your rescue.” Jasper points to them fiercely. “These two are the reason you’re all conscious right now.”

The crowd is buzzing as a rough voice cuts over them all.

“They also have my respect and my word, as King Roan  _ kom Azgeda,  _ that if they assist me now I, and my fellow leaders of the other Twelve Clans, will accept them as equals. We will grant you the land and trade rights that they have requested on your behalf.”     __

Bellamy looks back to Clarke. He sees in her face the same humbled and grateful look that he knows must be on his. She steps forward to speak.

“People of Arkadia, in the past you have been promised survival by your leaders. But life is about so much more than survival. It’s time we stopped talking about how to survive on the ground, and started talking about how to _ live _ on the ground.”  

An ear-splitting cheer takes over the crowd.

They’ve made their choice.

 

* * *

 

**Harper, April 2nd 2150**

 

Arkadia is buzzing. 

It’s very late, or very early, but swarms of people are still pacing the yard, rapidly muttering in small groups, concern pinching the line of their mouths. Alienated former Pike supporters look around like they don’t even recognize it anymore. Clusters of original Hundred members pass around moonshine and gossip with a furious abandon. Not everyone knows what to make of their new alliance with the Azgeda King, but Harper feels energized. Whatever they’re heading into, she’s raring to go.

Harper skips up to Bellamy, who greets her with a crooked grin. “Reporting for duty, sir.” 

“Harper! Just the woman I wanted to see.” 

Around them, the armory is bursting with cramped activity, all sharp elbows and stale air. At the rifle table, Bryan and Miller are working together to load up their weapons. Behind them, Octavia is admiring the selection of blades lining the cage wall, looking for all the world like this is her idea of a great party. 

Just outside the room, Clarke is speaking in a low voice to Roan. He looks better now, Harper thinks. Amazing what a couple of hours sleep and some stale jerky will do for someone. A bandage is wrapped around his upper arm on his left side, a lighter grey against his dark jacket. But otherwise he looks pretty good considering he took a bullet to the arm and passed out in the medical bay a few hours ago. Occasionally, Roan’s gaze drifts to the caged armory door. Harper gets the uneasy impression that he’s cataloguing its contents, though whether for any malevolent purpose or just because old habits die hard, she couldn’t guess. 

“How’s preparation going?” she asks, pulling her attention back to Bellamy.

He shrugs, one-shouldered and deceptively casual. “We’ll be ready by morning.”

“Who’s volunteered?”

Bellamy's answering chuckle is dry as a bone. “Think of all the people you would guess might volunteer for a mission this crazy. Those are the people who volunteered.”

“Jasper, Monty, Miller…” Harper counts off on her fingers, “Octavia, Lincoln, Raven…” Bellamy just nods, an amused smile playing on his face, “you and Clarke, obviously. And Bryan, apparently-” she indicates with a nod to the rifle table. “I think we’ve had a bad influence on that boy.”

“I agree!” Bryan pipes up from behind them. 

Harper laughs. “And me. That’s it. The craziest idiots Arkadia has to offer.”

“Sounds about right.”

“So where do you want me, boss?” asks Harper briskly, “I could go help Lincoln load the rover-?”

“That can wait, I need to talk to you about something-” He looks over Harper’s shoulder and locks eyes with someone else. She turns around and sees - who else? - Clarke looking back at Bellamy from where she’s still standing with Roan.

Harper shuffles in an awkward silence while Bellamy and Clarke share a series of significant glances. Clearly some unspoken conversation is happening here, either a match thing or a Bellamy-and-Clarke thing, it doesn’t really make a difference. 

“Uh…” Harper drags out the vowel, “what’s up?”

“Come on.” Bellamy gently steers her back out of the armory. “It’s way too crowded in here anyway.” 

Harper takes the cue and sets off down the hall, until the sounds of their friends preparing for war fade away. They walk aimless for a minute. Technically Harper’s in the lead, Bellamy, Clarke and Roan all walking along beside her, but since she has absolutely no clue where she’s meant to be going, she feels like probably someone else should be leading the way. 

When she’s sure the armory is out of earshot, Harper pulls up short, forcing the others to stop in the middle of the hallway.

“So this isn’t weird at all,” she drawls. “What’s up?”

Roan lolls to the opposite side of the hallway, leaning against the wall, giving the three of them space.

“Harper,” Clarke begins, uncharacteristically hesitant. “We need to ask you to do something.”

“You might not like it,” Bellamy chimes in. 

“Kay…” 

Harper wants to be able to promise them, to say  _ anything you need _ . She wants to offer them her support, no matter what. But she’s learned her lesson these past months. She will always have their backs, and while she would willfully walk into the mouth of Hell for these two, she won’t do  _ anything _ . 

“You can’t come with us to Polis.”

The immediate rush of rejection is as predictable as it is utterly humiliating.

“Oh.” And she hates the sound of her own voice, tiny and pathetic. “Okay.”

She shouldn’t be surprised. She’s not smart like Monty and Jasper and Raven, not strong like Miller and Bryan, not a warrior like Octavia and Lincoln. She’s nothing, the spare, she always has been-

“We need you to act as Interim Chancellor.”

Harper had never realized that thing about mouths dropping open in shock was actually true. But here she is, staring at Bellamy and Clarke like a goldfish swallowing air.

“Uh, sorry, what?”

“Someone needs to look after Arkadia,” Bellamy explains. They’ve thought about this, discussed it. “We’re only just getting our people back on their feet. We don’t know what we’re walking into in Polis, and we don’t know how long we’ll be gone. In the meantime, they need someone to turn to, someone to put their faith in.”

“All of that makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is the bit where  _ I’m _ that person?”

“Harper,” Clarke leans forward, her expression flirting the line between determined and manic. “We’re walking into a full-blown occupation. An entire city, thousands of people, all under Alie’s control. We don’t know what’s going to happen when we get there, if we’ll even make it-”

_ That’s ridiculous _ _,_ Harper wants to argue,  _ you’re Bellamy and Clarke. Of course you’ll be okay, _ but she knows better than to voice anything so naive.

“If the whole thing goes sideways,” Bellamy picks up where Clarke left off. “Or if Polis is freed but we die trying, or whatever. We need you to make sure Arkadia’s cared for.” At this, he cuts a glance to Roan. 

Roan doesn’t move from his position against the far wall, but he inclines his head at Harper in a gesture of acknowledgement. “You will be Arkadia’s voice,” he agrees. 

“Me?” Harper can’t help echoing, turning back to Bellamy and Clarke. “Are you sure? Not Kane or Abby or-”

“They’ll be there, they’ll help you,” Clarke persists, “but they’ll never regain the people’s trust. You, though. You’re one of the original Hundred. You survived the Mountain and helped rescue everyone inside. You’re brave and kind and dedicated. You might be the only person in camp who’s respected by both the people who supported Pike and the people who opposed him.”

Harper nods, though she’s not sure she completely believes it. “This is a lot,” she says, half to herself.

“You can do this, Harper. There’s no one else we’d trust with it.”

She feels the weight of their expectation settle on across her shoulders like a heavy fur. The version of Harper from the smoke could have done this - she wouldn’t have been afraid. Harper doesn’t know how to be that person, but in the meantime, she can sure as hell try. 

“Yeah,” Harper nods, her throat tight. “I got your back, always.”

And the surging expanse in her chest - like taking a full, slow breath - feels unmistakably like pride.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Entering the final few chapters now, as we head towards our own version of the climax in Polis!


	25. April 3rd 2150: A Meeting

 

**Bryan, April 3rd 2150**

 

“Listen, I’m here, I’m on board…” Octavia’s voice filters up the dark tunnel to where Jasper and Bryan are scouting a little ways ahead. 

They entered the tunnels nearly an hour ago, Roan guiding them through secret entrances outside the city. Apart from all the other craziness that’s happened in the last two days, the fact that the King of the Ice Nation is showing them all the secret entrances to the Grounder capital would have been enough to shock Bryan two weeks ago. Life on the ground moves at a faster pace than he’d expected.

It’s a good job he’s not claustrophobic. The tunnels are grim, the walls moist and the air stinking of sewage and mud. He and Jasper drew the short straw and were assigned to scout out the tunnel a little ways ahead of the others. They trudge along, monitoring the path ahead for any sign that Alie and her people have breached the tunnels or managed to literally smoke out the Grounders trapped down here. 

“...I’m just  _ saying _ _,”_ Octavia’s voice continues from behind them, “it’s a little ironic, is all, that last time we were in this tunnel we were sneaking  _ out _ _,_ to get  _ away _ from you.”

“It’s hilarious.” Clarke’s voice is dry, edging on genuinely angry.

Bryan would be lying if he said he totally understood what kind of Grounder politics they’re wrapped up in, exactly. Except the aim seems to be a ceasefire, and trade, and long-term sustainable living. As far as he can tell everyone’s on board with those terms, at least, which is enough for him.

“Is this about that dying Grounder on the beach?” Bryan asks Jasper in an undertone. 

Jasper laughs, his flashlight sweeping a wide arc across the path in front of them. “Oh man, I’m the wrong person to ask. I’m leaving the politics up to the people with the eyeliner. We’re better off staying out of it-”

“Stop!” Bryan shouts. He throws up a hand and grips Jasper’s arm, holding him back.  

A surge of panic and adrenaline floods through him, seizing his lungs and catching in his throat. Colour has swept through the dim tunnel in a wave, filling his vision with warm earthy tones of brown and amber.

“Everyone cover your mouths!” Bryan shouts over his shoulder to the group. “The smoke must have gotten in from somewh-”

The words sputter and die as Bryan’s eyes land on a small band of Grounders who have turned the corner up ahead. There, at the front of the pack, is…  _ him _ _._ The same head of soft brown curls, the impish grin on his face, and,  _ finally _ _,_ his eyes, bottle green and locked with rapt attention on Bryan.

The man is suddenly striding with terrifying purpose towards them, his eyes not leaving Bryan’s for a moment. And Bryan has no idea what’s real and what’s imaginary, can’t even trust his own senses as he stares at the figure of the man he’s been dreaming about for  weeks . He feels as though his grip on reality is slipping like sand through his fingers and every second the man is getting closer, and Bryan can’t breathe, he can’t-

His brain completely short circuits when the man reaches him and, without hesitating, pulls Bryan into a hard, intent, dizzying kiss. Abruptly, Bryan decides he doesn’t give a shit whether this is real or not, because this might be the best kiss he’s ever had, and that alone means he is almost definitely hallucinating. As he registers the warm press of the man’s tongue on his lips Bryan acts on instinct, throwing himself with abandon into his match’s arms.

Fuck it, you only live once. 

When they finally part, breathless and flushed, it’s to be greeted by the open stares of everyone else in the tunnel. The others had caught up to them at some point, Bryan realizes, and he feels his blush deepen.

“Uh… what the fuck?” Jasper says, staring at the pair of them.

_ So, you can definitely see him?  _ Bryan desperately wants to ask, wants to make sure he’s not high, but he finds he’s a little afraid of the answer. At this point, which option would actually be less embarrassing?

He’s saved needing to ask by a voice at the far end of the tunnel, dry and bored.

“Prince Tolk, this is hardly the time.”

Bryan looks over the man’s broad shoulder, to find a woman watching them from among the crowd of Grounders, her arms crossed over her chest, an expression of exasperated disinterest on her face.

The man -  _ Tolk _ _?_ \- looks over his shoulder too, greeting the woman with an unabashed grin. “Sorry Indra. Not every day you meet your  _ keryon-ai _ _,_ you know. I wanted to make a good impression.” He looks back at Bryan again and gives him a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows. “I’ve been told my tongue is one of my better assets.”

Idly, Bryan wonders whether he’s having an aneurysm. Is this what an aneurysm feels like?

“No one has ever said that,” comes another voice from behind them. A thin, sharp-eyed young woman, dressed in a fur-lined coat and scowling down the tunnel. “What they say is that your tongue will get you into trouble.”

“That too,” Tolk allows, his smile undimmed. “So…” he turns back to Bryan, and Bryan can’t quite catch his breath under the intensity of the man’s full attention. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Bryan manages.

“I’m Tolk.” 

“Bryan.” Bryan’s voice is still higher and squeakier than it should be, but he feels he’s doing pretty well, under the circumstances. He’s only just starting to believe that this might actually be real and not a very elaborate, very humiliating hallucination. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Bryan.” Tolk’s smile is like looking directly into the sun.

Bryan’s brain is finally starting to catch up. “I’m sorry… did she say ‘Prince’ before?” 

“Oh, barely,” Tolk responds with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

“What?” 

Tolk looks about to answer, when Roan strides forward. “There’ll be time for introductions later. For now, follow this way. We have business to attend to.”

Bryan is stupidly grateful to be out of the spotlight. The others start to move away, many of his friends casting him significant looks as they pass. 

“So.” Tolk nonchalantly loops his arm around Bryan’s, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Tell me about yourself.” 

 

* * *

 

**Clarke April 3rd, 2150**

 

Clarke follows Roan through the tunnels, still processing what just happened. That Tolk and Bryan are matched is surprising enough, but that Tolk on first meeting Bryan would so boldly walk right up to his match and kiss him before even saying a word. Clarke’s minds spins at the audacity of it. After all, not all matches are romantic, right? What would she have done if Bellamy had walked right up to her and kissed her like that back when they had first seen each other after the dropship had landed? As soon as the thought has occurred to her she is suddenly very grateful that they are in a dimly lit tunnel, as she can feel the blood rush to her cheeks, prickling at her skin. Because that wouldn’t have been so bad would it? If their relationship had been romantic and established at the very start? It would have certainly changed a lot; she wouldn’t have spent all that time thinking that her match was one-sided, thinking that it didn’t really matter. She would have realized a lot sooner how important she was to him, and maybe it would have stopped her denying how important he was to her too. Clarke yanks herself away from her spiraling thoughts. Now is not the time to be thinking about kissing Bellamy Blake. They have a war to win.

Roan leads them to a cavernous open space that looks like it’s an intersection for multiple different tunnels, branching off on all sides. At the moment it seems to be serving as a meeting point. A few dozen Grounders all seem to have taken refuge from the smoke-filled city above. They huddle in clusters at the edge of the space and look up at Roan’s arrival. They all follow the Grounder welcome party to gather in the middle of the large space, where a circle of rocks has been dragged into a loose circle to create some seating. Roan motions for them all to be seated. 

“Well I’ll be damned.”

Clarke turns at the familiar voice, to find Murphy at the mouth of the tunnel, one shoulder leaning casually against the wall like he owns the place. He pushes off from the wall and strides forward to greet them.

She isn’t surprised when he and Bellamy clasp hands and embrace, both genuinely pleased to be reunited. Still, Clarke has to marvel at when exactly these two men, who have both strung the other up for dead at some point, became old friends.         

“Not a lot of people around here were betting on you guys turning up.”

“Sorry if you lost some money,” Bellamy quips.

“Nah, I learned a long time ago not to bet against the two of you.” Murphy eyes Bellamy carefully. “So, you back to normal?” 

Bellamy winces. “Yeah. I... uh… look, I'm sorry about before-”

Murphy waves this away like it's a wasp flying around his head. “Whatever man, it's a fucked up old world. Glad you're back.”

Bellamy’s replying smile is surprised, but grateful. “Glad to be back.”

Murphy turns to Clarke now and she realizes that she is genuinely glad to see him too. “Hi, Murphy.”

“Hey Clarke. You, uh-” he looks around the wide cavern, clearly checking they’re not being overhead. “You get the help you needed, for that friend of yours?”

Clarke smiles. “Yes, she’s... she’s going to be okay, I think. Thank you, really. I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

Murphy looks as uncomfortable at this as he did at Bellamy’s apology. “Hey,” Clarke thinks quickly, trying to change the subject, “where’s that girl you were with? I’d like to thank her too.”

An entirely different look crosses Murphy’s face at this. But before he can reply, a voice carries out across the tunnel, calling them all to order. The three of them move towards the centre of the room, taking up seats on the wide stones laid out for them. 

As the group congregates, Clarke looks for the first time towards the voice who is now welcoming them all and inviting them to sit. She has beautiful bright eyes and her white hair is wrapped up on top of her head by a glowing green vine. She doesn’t know how, but Clarke is sure before she says it: this is the new Commander.

When everyone has gathered, Commander Cinna starts by explaining the situation. All of this sounds painfully familiar and Clarke has to fight down a terrible wave of guilt and regret at being so responsible for all of this suffering.

“We’ve tried to take her down, but as soon as we get close to her, or close to putting out any of her fires suddenly we are facing an army of our own people who are under the drug.” Indra is speaking now. “They are not themselves, it is as though they will do anything for her.”

“They will, that’s true.” Bellamy confirms.

“But they can all be saved, cured, is that correct?” asks Cinna.

“Given time and some medicine that we’ve found, yes they can.”

“So you see our difficulty. We cannot fight our way through them, we cannot harm them.” 

“Last time,” Miller says, “when we took back Arkadia we disarmed everyone first. Maybe we could do that again?”

“There are no weapons allowed in Polis. Everyone should already be disarmed.”

“Sure, officially,” Octavia challenges, looking around the circle, “but aren’t you all armed?” 

“It’s besides the point,” Roan interrupts. “Armed or not most of those people up there are trained warriors and we’re outnumbered twenty-to-one. If they don’t want us getting to that woman then we won’t.”

“We need to get her away from the rest of them somehow, draw her out. That’s what we did to get her out of Arkadia.”

“If you had her separate yourselves, why didn’t you just finish the job?” Echo’s voice is cutting. “If you had, none of this would have happened. Who knew the  _ Wanheda  _ was so weak after all.”

Clarke flinches, recalling her role in setting Alie on Polis. She buries the memory, buries her guilt. “Mercy is not weakness.”

“MERCY?”

“Enough.” Cinna’s voice whistles like a cold breeze. “The question of mercy is immaterial. The fact remains that both these strangers are in contempt of our law. it is a capital offense to bear undeclared weapons into Polis.”

Murphy’s laugh is high and sharp, drawing stern glares from everyone in the tunnel. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he manages after a moment. “You didn’t seem to care much about that law when you Julius-Caesared your old Commander, wouldn’t you say?”

_ “Well,  _ just because we made an exception for one hostile takeover, does that mean we have to make an exception for  _ every _ hostile takeover-?”

“Tolk!” Roan bites. He casts Clarke an apologetic look, but doesn’t offer any counter-argument.

“You can have Alie,” Clarke says cooly to Cinna, ignoring both Roan’s glare and Tolk’s careless grin, “but Thelonious Jaha is one of ours. We will determine his punishment.”

Clarke couldn’t say why she feels so strongly about this, but she knows, instinctively, that she will not leave Jaha’s fate up to the Grounders. It’s hardly as though she has any warm feelings towards him, exactly, but he is still a citizen of the Ark. Tactically, it’s important to establish a precedent that the punishment of her people is handled within the walls of Arkadia, and she is not willing to negotiate on this point. Maybe, though, it’s that she still remembers Jaha as no less than Wells’ stern-faced father, watching over them as they played with toys on the floor of Wells’ quarters. The Earth has changed them all, for better or worse, and Clarke can’t help wondering what Wells would have thought about the choices his father has made. About the choices any of them have made.

In her friend’s absence, the least Clarke can do is extend compassion to his father.

“Wait, hold up. So Alie is this immortal drugged up psychopath on a mission, right?” Tolk nods towards Murphy, who was clearly the one who supplied this description for him. “But that guy, Jaha, you’re saying he’s just one of your people?”

“A crazy one, with a saviour complex the size of the sun, but yeah, human.” Murphy supplies.    

“But he’s conscious in the smoke, I’ve seen it. Why does the drug not affect him?”

Alie’s words echo in Clarke’s head. “She’s been grooming him, giving him a little everyday to build up his tolerance so he can guard her and keep the fires burning.”

“So what would happen if we gave him a full dosage? A very full dosage.”

“Then, I suppose he would be like everyone else. How would that help?”

“He’s her weakness,” Bellamy pipes up, “when he wanted to stay in Arkadia she demanded that he travel with her. He’s special to her, I could see it, the only help she’s got. If we have Jaha, Alie will come to us.”   

“Can we get to Jaha without facing an army of drugged-up Polis citizens?”

“Only one way to find out, but I think so. Their core urge on the drug is to protect the source of the drug so they can get more. That means protecting the fires from going out and protecting Alie, I’m not sure they would think to protect Jaha.”

“So we have our bait to catch her. What do we do about everybody else?”

“Um, I may have something for that.” Monty offers hesitantly. “Jasper and I, we’ve been working on a, um, let’s call it a stronger form of the drug we used before. To help with the detox.”

“How much stronger?”

“Strong enough to stop an army in its tracks?”

“I think so, yes.”

Around the room, Clarke takes in her friends: Jasper and Monty sharing a wide rock, grinning in anticipation, Bellamy frowning and concerned next to her, Miller and Raven across from him, their features cast in the glowing light of the fire, Bryan standing a bit apart, his new match by his side. Octavia and Lincoln, standing outside of the firelight, stoic and attentive. Clarke is compelled, desperate, to protect her people. And she promised her mom they would do it right this time.

“Alright, so we’re agreed,” Clarke cuts in swiftly, before the conversation can go any further. “You need us, and we can help. Now we agree terms.”

“Terms?” Cinna’s voice is sharp, but not hostile. 

“Last time, our attempts to forge a peace failed, mostly because all the relevant parties-” her gaze cuts to Echo, then to Roan, then to Bellamy, “-weren’t on board. This time, everyone here needs to be crystal clear what it is we’re signing up to. Can you guarantee that the terms of our agreement will hold when the rest of Polis is freed?” 

Silence, heavy and awkward, greets her words. Clarke wants this to work, and this time she’s determined that all decisions be made with full consent.

“Times have changed since you were last here,” Cinna replies evenly. “It is not for me to dictate the will of the Twelve Clans. We will need to take the matter to a vote, once the Council is reinstated. However...” Cinna looks around the circle, at the dozen or so Grounders clustered here. Some of them Clarke recognizes, a mix of Ambassadors and guards from the Tower, others she doesn’t. “...we have sufficient number here, representatives from nine of the twelve Clans, that any decisions made here will carry majority rule at the Council Table.”

Various Grounders around the tunnels are nodding their agreement. 

“How do we know you won’t just change your vote once the danger’s over?” Raven’s leaning forward, fixing Cinna with a hard look.

“I guess you’ll just have to trust us,” Roan replies, drawing and holding Raven’s gaze for a moment. 

“Alright then,” Bellamy interjects before anyone says anything they regret. “We want a seat on this council.”

“Done.”

“We want land rights for Arkadia, with a border of five miles on all sides.”

A look of complaint flashes on Echo’s face, but Clarke watches as Roan drops a hand to her arm and she relents. Cinna looks to the pair of them, who nod, then at Indra, who also nods.

“Done,” she agrees. 

“We want trade agreements, safe passage, and territory free from marauders.”

“You’ll have to agree those with each Clan individually, just as we all must.”

“Each King or Queen is responsible for the goings on within their borders,” Roan interjects, “they’ll trade with you, grant you passage, if you can provide the same, but thieves will always be a risk. They won’t attack Arkadia head on, but the roads have always been dangerous. All you can do as Queen is ensure your people are able to protect themselves when they travel.”

More nods from other Grounders around the cavern. “If you pull this off,” one of them says from the far corner, “you will find a friend in the  _ Louwoda Kliron.” _

“The  _ Ouskejonkru,  _ too, will grant you trade and passage.” A pair of identical twins nod at her from their position at attention behind Cinna. Clarke gives them a tentative smile.

“Is that all of your demands?” Cinna asks.

“Yes, thank y-”

“And Lincoln goes free,” Octavia interrupts swiftly from the shadows. “His kill order is lifted, effective immediately.” 

Cinna blinks. This is clearly the first she’s heard of it.

Behind her, Indra flinches, as though she’d also forgotten about it. “Consider it done,” she replies, looking from Lincoln to Octavia. Indra isn’t the type to smile, but Clarke could have sworn there was a hint of warmth, something like affection, in the look she gives to them. 

“Alright, so we’re agreed?” Bellamy asks, looking around at the assembled Grounders. 

“All in favour?” Cinna asks briskly. 

Every hand around the room rises.  _ “If  _ you can pull it off,  _ Skaikru,” _ one of the blond twins from the Blue Cliff Clan adds, eyeing them up, even while his arm is still raised  in agreement.

“Alright then,” Clarke nods. “Let’s get to work.”

Two weeks ago Clarke couldn’t have imagined sitting around and peacefully working together to make plans with the very people who stabbed Lexa and stole her command. But here she is. If she’s learned anything in her time on the Earth it's that things can change fast down here. Given the choice though, this, working together, it feels a lot better than working alone.     

 

* * *

 

**Bellamy, April 3rd 2150**

 

Planning for the siege takes hours, conversation moving back and forth and back and forth. The Grounders plan wars by committee. They outline roles and timeframes and terms of engagement, then Cinna calmly calls for votes on each aspect of the plan. If enough people agree, that portion of the plan carries and they move onto the next . If not, they go back and renegotiate. It’s slow, but thorough, and by the end every single Grounder in the tunnels is on board. 

For the first time, Bellamy gets a real look at what life as the thirteenth Clan might look like. If they survive tomorrow, Bellamy thinks they might just be able to find a place in this world. 

The torches are burning low in their sconces when they finally call it a night. Distantly, Bellamy thinks he can hear a low bell ringing above ground.

“It’s to be a long day ahead tomorrow,” Cinna announces. “Rest now.” Everything about the new Commander is deceptively serene. She never raises her voice, her expression never turns fraught, but Bellamy has the distinct impression of her  _ deadliness.  _ She is a poisonous flower, beautiful, but by no means safe. 

Clarke picks out a patch of ground against the wall of the central cave, Bellamy following her lead and carving out a space for himself by her side. Her smile when she looks at him, their shoulders just barely touching, is familiar and comforting. Not so long ago, he thought he might never have this quiet trust restored between them. He returns her smile gratefully as they settle in for the night. 

He’s minutes from a fitful sleep when a long shadow falls over him. 

“Bellamy?” 

Bellamy cracks his eyes open. It’s Murphy, standing over him with a strained expression on his face. “Can we talk?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Bellamy pulls himself to standing.

Clarke stays put, looking curiously between the two of them. Her expression seems to say,  _ I’m leaving this one to you.  _

Privacy is an illusion with thirty people crammed into a cave, but they’re all putting on a good show of pretending it exists. A couple feet away, Bryan is peppering Tolk with whispered questions about the Lake People. Bellamy can’t help but look at the unlikely match with some bemusement. A little further away, Raven and Jasper have fallen asleep on top of each other, an unruly pile of limbs. Beside them, Miller and Monty are sitting together, heads bent towards one another, smiles on both their lips. Octavia and Lincoln are sitting with Indra and another Grounder Bellamy doesn’t recognize, voices low and intent, speaking in smooth Trigedasleng.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Murphy suggests, leading Bellamy down a different tunnel than the one they’d entered through. 

The tunnels are narrow and uniform, with low ceilings and dim torches lining the walls at wide intervals. Murphy seems strangely at home here, familiar with the environment and comfortable as he leads the way. 

“What’s up, Murphy?” Bellamy asks after a full minute of silent walking. Exhaustion is a tight pinch behind Bellamy’s eyes and he can’t help but think longingly of the patch of dirt he just abandoned.  

Murphy lets out an aggravated sigh, running a hand through his overgrown hair. “I’ve lost my mind, apparently, is what.”

“Uh-”

“I want to volunteer. I… I can get to Jaha. I know I can. Send me in, I’ll get him away from Alie and deliver him to Clarke, no problem.”

This was not what Bellamy had expected. 

The divvying up of the plan meant that the Grounders were responsible for defense, the Arkers for offence. Bellamy had just  assumed that he would be the one to lure out Jaha. It’s the first, critical, step. General wisdom also suggests it’s the most likely to go sideways. Bellamy wouldn’t have asked anyone else to do it. 

You… you know the chances are pretty damn good that whoever goes in will end up either high or dead.”

“I know.”

“Even if you don’t end up dead, it could still go wrong in other ways. It could endanger Clarke. It could send her into a trap.” 

What Bellamy doesn’t say is how little he wants to trust Clarke’s safety to anyone else, that it’ll kill him if she ends up captured or killed and he could have done something about it.

“I know.”

“Murphy, we just spent god-knows how many hours developing  _ three _ backup plans because of how likely it is that whoever goes in will fail.”

“I was there.”

“Right, but… knowing all that…”

“Why would I volunteer?”

“Yeah!”

Murphy drags his hand through his hair again. “Because I can do it. I’ve spent more time than any of you with Jaha and Alie. I know these assholes better than you do.”

“Yeah, but  _ why _ would you volunteer?”

At this, Murphy’s expression flashes, angry and insulted. “Is it so hard to believe I might want to help?”

“No-”

“That  _ maybe _ I give a shit about this?”

“I didn’t mean-”

“That actually, maybe I know that if I’d put a bullet in Alie’s head the minute I met her, all of this could have been prevented? I knew what she was. I  _ knew, _ right from the start.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Fuck you, of course it is. And now, because I was too much of a coward, too worried for my precious soul, as if that’s not a complete write off at this point anyway-”

Bellamy’s never seen Murphy like this before. He’s wracked with guilt. It’s clearly eating at him, consuming him whole. He’s almost shaking with it, and Bellamy has no idea how to reconcile this version of Murphy with the survival-at-all-costs pragmatist he used to know.

_ “Murphy.  _ What the hell’s going on?”

“THEY TOOK EMORI.”

The words sound ripped from him, unwilling and viciously painful.

Murphy’s breath rattles in his chest and the silence in the tunnel feels heavy and oppressive.

“It was about a week after Jaha and Alie arrived. We… there were more of us, back then. The tunnels were full of people who’d run. We thought, at first, that we might be able to fight. I should have known better, but I didn’t realize how… organized Alie’d become. When I first met her she said - well, I mean, she’d never forced me or Emori to take the drug without our consent, right? She wanted people who  _ wanted _ to join the City of Light. So I thought it’d be okay, we could get close enough to kill her, or, I dunno, convince her to leave or something. But the drug was  _ everywhere.  _ And… I lost her. Emori. She went into the smoke and she didn’t come back.”

Bellamy thinks back to the woman Murphy had been traveling with when he arrived at Arkadia so many weeks ago. Is she his match? Taking in the rudderless anguish on Murphy’s face, flayed and stripped raw, he doesn’t need to ask. He’d recognize that look anywhere.

“I’m sorry.”

Murphy glares at this. “You’re not the only one who wants to protect the people you care about.”

He doesn’t want Bellamy’s sympathy or his pity. All he wants is to  _ do something. _ Bellamy can relate.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Yeah, you’re right. If anyone could pull it off, it’s you.”

Murphy nods tightly, looking up to meet Bellamy’s eyes. “Damn right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun one to write - excited to hear your thoughts!


	26. April 4th 2150: BOOM

**Murphy, April 4th 2150**

 

Fuck, he does not want to do this.

His hand rests on the sealed tunnel door, fingers trembling against the cold steel.

Ugh, why did he volunteer for this bullshit? When did he become this person?

“Good luck.” Bellamy claps a hand on Murphy’s shoulder. “Remember, they don’t know we’re coming. They’re not expecting an attack, they have no reason to suspect you...” Bellamy’s pep talk could use some work. The look on his face suggests he expects Murphy to change his mind at any second.

And hell, Murphy would really like to change his mind. Besides, it’s not even like this part of the plan is _necessary,_ as such. This is just a diversionary tactic or something, right? If he were to just turn around and refuse to go, the others would figure out another way. He doesn’t have to do this, he doesn’t.

But fuck. Then he remembers Emori, and the way her eyes went wide with fear the moment before the smoke enveloped her. His resolve hardens.

“I got this.”

 

\--

 

Alie’s minions have been busy since he was last topside.

The sickly smell permeates the air everywhere now, smoke hanging in a low fog throughout the city’s serpentine streets. It’s eerily empty out here and Murphy feels a pang of grief seeing Polis like this. It’s stupid, he barely knows this place. He lived here a couple weeks, max, before the whole thing went to hell. But goddamn it he _likes_ it here, it’s just about the only place he’s ever actively liked.

He grits his teeth and breathes, short and shallow, through the cloth over his mouth. The smoke curls in tendrils towards him. They look to Murphy like tentacles of some hideous monster, luring him into a trap. Even so, he follows, letting the smoke lead him forward.

Denser and denser it gets, as he moves towards the main square. The people start to appear as the smoke gets thicker. They float like ghosts through the fog. Murphy flinches away from them, but they don’t take any notice of him so it’s not like it matters.

The cloth is terrible protection. It was always going to be useless by the time he got right to the heart of Alie’s stronghold. Which is probably why everyone’s been treating this part of the plan like it’s a damn suicide mission. He can feel the burn of the smoke at the back of his throat, sweet and cloying and so fucking disgusting.

It’s messing with him already, he knows, but he’s not going to give in without a fight. His vision blurs with a boost of colour. _It’s fake, it’s fake, it’s fake._ Emori’s voice hovers at the back of his mind. _It’s fake, it’s fake, it’s fake._ He holds this knowledge like a torch against his chest, keeping him warm, keeping his mind his own. _Get Jaha, get out. Get Jaha, get out._

He keeps moving.     

When he enters the square, he’s knocked back again by the strength of the bonfire in the centre. He pushes forward, closer and closer. With a massive effort, he forces himself to drop the cloth from around his face. It’s not like it was doing much at this point anyway.

Alie and Jaha are sitting side by side on a stone bench in the heart of the square. They look like some twisted King and Queen, presiding over their burning city.   

“John Murphy,” Jaha’s voice calls to him, with as much surprise as a completely lifeless voice can manage.

Murphy’s starting to feel lightheaded and weak with the effort of pushing the drug’s influence away. It’s getting harder to keep his thoughts in order, to remember what he’s doing and why. It’s almost impossible now, to ignore the blur of colour, exaggerated and brighter than normal. Emori is hovering in his peripheral vision, laughing at him, her hand outstretched. And he wants to, he…

 _No!_ They caused an apocalypse. They destroyed this city. They took Emori. They locked him in a lighthouse, alone, for months. Fuck these people.

“Jaha.” And speaking _hurts,_ through the press of the drug and his constricted lungs. He really has to get out of here. “You were right.”

His head is splitting now. It’s like trying to hold two conversations at the same time, as he looks at Jaha, trying to keep his face calm, while an increasingly persistent fake-Emori vies for his attention. She’s crying now, begging for him to look at her, come with her, it will all be okay if he joins her…

“John,” Jaha smiles, wide and creepy. He stands to greet Murphy like they’re old friends. “I am so pleased you have joined us.”

_(Come on John. I’ve missed you, haven’t you missed me too? Come with me…)_

“Your will is strong, John Murphy,” Alie comments from her position on the stone bench, eyeing him carefully.

 _Fuck, shit, fuck, she knows._ Murphy doesn’t know how, but he can feel her gaze looking right through him, seeing every inch of the liar he is. How did he ever think he could trick her?

“Yeah,” he tries anyway, because at this point what the fuck choice does he have? “But I’ve seen the light.” There was a time when such a stupid joke might have made him laugh, but Fake-Emori is screaming now, and his brain is being torn to shreds, and he can barely think at all anymore.

“I am glad for you, John.” Jaha grips Murphy’s shoulder like a father greeting his son. It’s all Murphy can do to stay standing and keep himself from vomiting on Jaha’s boots. “Come for a walk with me through the City of Light?”

It’s everything Murphy wants, it’s the very excuse he’s been waiting for, handed to him on a silver platter. _Get Jaha, get out. Get Jaha, get out._ Jaha has always been too trusting by half and particularly keen to win over Murphy for reasons Murphy himself really, really doesn’t understand. And now, at last, it might come in handy. But speaking feels like an impossible task, a mountain that he cannot possibly hope to climb. The strain must show on his face, it must. His vision is like a dial cranked too high, blinding him, leaving a high pitched whine ringing in his ears.

“Yes,” he says at last. And he’s probably speaking too loud, or not loud enough. He is the opposite of Jaha’s collected calm. Alie’s eyes have narrowed. “Yes, let’s,” he gasps.

He has to grip Jaha’s arm for support as they turn to leave the square and walk together.

“Thelonius-” Alie says, her voice sharp and suspicious behind them. And Murphy’s blood turns cold at the sound, but Jaha must not hear, because they’re still walking, still moving quietly away from the square.

He manages - somehow - to put one foot in front of the other. It gets easier once they leave the square, but Murphy can still feel the persistent tug of the drug. It’s everywhere: behind his eyes, crawling under his skin, squirming through his blood. But the fog is thinner now, and Murphy’s thoughts start to come back to him, one at a time. The Tower. He needs to get to the Tower.

“I am so pleased to have you with us, John,” Jaha is saying, “The City of Light is so beautiful-”

“Uhuh,” Murphy agrees. He’s still not quite up to full sentences yet.

He turns sharply towards the Tower, his movements awkward and jerky. Jaha follows his lead serenely. As they reach the steps of the Tower, Murphy sees them. Bellamy, leading a small team, waits in ambush under the shadow of the Tower. Cloths are tightly tied over their faces, and their eyes look clear. Murphy nearly cries from relief at the sight of them.

“This way,” he says to Jaha.

Just a couple more steps now...   

Finally, finally, they’re close enough that Bellamy’s ambush can fall upon Jaha. Tolk and Bryan grab him from either side, Miller covering Jaha’s face and mouth with a cloth saturated in the pure powder version of the drug. Even Jaha, who’s been exposed to so much of the drug by now that Murphy’s surprised he’s still alive, can’t withstand that much of it and stay in his right mind. Jaha’s eyes roll back in his head and he drops, limbless, against Tolk’s broad frame.

Murphy collapses to the steps in relief and lets the smoke take him.

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, April 4th 2150**

 

It’s so quiet up here.

Down below, Clarke can see the smoke choking the streets of Polis, poisoning the city. They’re too high up in the Tower for it to affect them - the drug dissipates in the wind before it reaches the top floors. All the same, Clarke can’t feel safe. She feels trapped up here. If Alie’s army breaches the Tower, they’re done for.

Everything’s in place, the plan’s as good as it’s going to get. Clarke makes a silent promise to herself to design better plans in future. Ideally ones where she’s not acting as the bait. That is, if there is a future. She draws her fingers endlessly over the rolled note in her hands, nervously passing it from palm to palm as she waits.

The team arrives with plenty of notice. The elevator is creaking and ancient, and Clarke hears them coming from about twenty floors below. The door chimes and a half-dozen of people pile out of it. Roan and Echo emerge first, armed to the teeth and looking ready for war. Echo carries an impressive longbow in one hand, a quiver of arrows slung across her back. Roan has a broadsword at his back, an array of knives in various pockets on leather straps across his chest and belt. They spread out swiftly and survey the room as though expecting an immediate attack. Bellamy and Miller follow behind, carrying an unconscious Jaha between them.

“You did it!” Clarke exclaims. If she’s being honest, she’s more than a little surprised. This part of the plan hinged on excessive luck and a certain amount of insanity.

“I’m as surprised as you,” Bellamy agrees as he and Miller drag Jaha forward and drop him heavily in the corner of the room.

Miller dusts his hands with a satisfied smile. “Onto Phase Two?” he asks.

Bellamy nods.

“You have the note?” Roan asks Clarke. He and Echo move to join the rest of the team, forming a loose circle at the top of the short steps, where Lexa’s throne used to sit. It seems much bigger now, with all of them up here.

Clarke hands the note in to Roan silently. She’s read it and re-read it enough times by now:

 

**_We have Jaha._ **

**_Come to the top of Polis Tower. Alone. Within the hour. Or we put a bullet in his brain._ **

 

Roan inspects it, nods, and hands the note over to Echo. She slips an arrow easily from her quiver and skewers the note carefully.

“Bryan and Tolk and the others are on their way up with the rest of the backup team,” Bellamy tells Clarke. “We’ll secure the room as best we can. We got your back.”

Clarke nods against the sudden lump of fear in her throat. “Okay.”

Bellamy catches the tension in her voice, obviously, and looks at her intently. “Clarke, we don’t have to do this. We can find another way-”

“No.” She smiles at him, grateful for the offer, but determined. “This... It’s…I don’t know if this’ll work, but…”

“Yeah,” Bellamy seems to agree without her having to explain. “We’re going to try anyway.”

She gives him a shaky smile. “It’s what we do.”

“Well, make up your mind now,” Echo tells them as she notches the arrow to her bow.

“This is really going to work?” Miller is eyeing up the bow and arrow curiously.

Echo shrugs. “The arena’s a pretty big target,” she says, as though aiming for a target from thirty floors up is nothing at all. “It’s not like I’m trying to hit that Alie bitch between the eyes.”

“Still…” Miller looks unconvinced.

“I’ve been the best shot in Azgeda since I was ten years old,” Echo tells him coolly, as though that settles the matter. It doesn’t sound like a brag, exactly, but more like she’s just stating a fact.

“It’s true,” Roan chips in from her other side. “She made us have a contest.”

Echo clicks her tongue at him, her smile uncharacteristically warm. “Still bitter about that, huh? Envy’s not a good look on a King, you know.”

Roan just rolls his eyes at her. “Get on with it, hotshot.”

Echo’s smile dims, her expression turning hard as she moves to the window, a frown of concentration bending between her eyebrows. The strain of the bow is loud in the sudden silence. The rest of the room watches, tense, as Echo carefully takes aim. With a _whoosh_ and the slightest displacement of air, the arrow soars through the open window, spinning down, down, down, to land distantly in the fighting arena, far away and many feet below them.

Miller whistles. He is still eying Echo’s bow, but there’s an admiration in his gaze now that wasn’t there before.

“The message will get to her,” Bellamy says confidently. He unwinds a roll of black fabric from around his neck and hands it out to Clarke. “Here. For the signal.”

Clarke accepts it, scrunching the cloth into her closed fist. “Alright. So, we wait.”

 

* * *

 

**Raven, April 4th 2150**

 

Raven’s hand holds steady as she gingerly places the tiny vial of combustible fuel in the bed of Monty’s latest drug.

It sounded simple enough, use the smoke of this new drug to knock out everyone high on the smoke from the old drug. The problem had been one of time and space. Polis is huge and they need to be able to take everyone down fast, before anyone could start retaliating. It was Raven who had seen the answer. After all, smoke from a fire was good, but smoke from a bomb was better.

They were small bombs, of course. (Well, small-ish.) Six of them, placed strategically around the city to create least damage, but full coverage. This last one was on the eastern edge of the city.

Raven lifts the radio to her mouth, “Final bomb is set. I repeat, final bomb is set.” Her voice is muffled from the thick cloth tied around the lower half of her face, but she figures they’ll get the message.

Sure enough, Monty’s voice crackles back from the radio, “Great job Raven, now get back here fast before the signal from Clarke.”    

Raven is about to respond when she sees her. A Grounder easily twice Raven’s size has emerged from behind the building to Raven’s left and is watching her intently. People under the drug don’t attack unless they can tell you are a threat to either their drug supply or Alie. The question was, could this woman tell that Raven is in fact a threat to both of those things?

Raven stays completely still, hoping that the women will ignore her and move on. But she doesn’t. She advances slowly. The closer she gets the more Raven is sure that she will never win in a fight against this obviously well trained and experienced Grounder warrior. It’s clear neither of them know what to do or how to make the first move so they stay there in a delicate stalemate.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees it. A scrap of black fabric floats on the wind down the side of Polis tower. The signal from Clarke. That means she’s currently up with Alie at the top of the tower. Murphy must have been able to deliver them Jaha after all. But this is bad. Really bad. Because the signal means it’s time to detonate the bombs and knock out the whole city, including Alie and Clarke up in that tower. Clarke is meant to be a distraction so she doesn’t see it coming. While Alie is focusing on Clarke they take them all out. The problem is, they are not ready to set off the explosions because Raven is not yet back underground. And as a second and third Grounder appear to Raven’s right, it’s starting to feel like Alie hasn’t been completely distracted after all.

Raven has the thought: she could do it now. The lighter in her pocket could do the trick. She could set off the bomb at her feet, which would start a chain reaction that would explode the others as well. She could take out these three Grounders fast approaching her now. But she would also take herself out too. The blast radius of these shouldn’t be too large, but she’s right on top of it, there’s no way she’d survive it. There was a time when she would have made that call. Taken the risk. But something powerful stops her hand as she stands there. It overwhelms her, filling her with a staggering and foreign sensation. She knows with absolute certainty at that moment that she wants to live.

This world has been pretty shitty to her recently, but she’s not done with it yet.     

Monty’s panicked voice bursts through the radio again. “RAVEN, WHERE ARE YOU? THEY FOUND THE TUNNELS. RAVEN THEY KNOW!”

Everything suddenly happens very quickly. At the sound of the radio the Grounders, who had been gradually closing in around her, leap to life. They draw daggers and launch for Raven. Moving quickly, Raven throws a handful of Monty’s new grey powder into their eyes and runs as fast as she can force her body to go.

She screams back into the radio, “SEAL YOURSELVES IN. I WON’T MAKE IT BACK IN TIME. I SAW THE SIGNAL. DO IT NOW!”

Adrenaline surges through Raven’s blood, keeping her moving. She just has to find cover, has to find shelter somewhere.

Then, as she rounds a corner she sees them. Chaos in the streets, swords and knives and fists flying in all directions. They haven’t just breached the tunnels; they’ve forced everyone out into open battle on the streets of Polis. This is bad.

As she weaves through the market stalls, trying to shake the Grounders on her tail, the smoke from Alie’s drug grows thicker, hanging in the air like a putrid fog. Raven presses a hand against the cloth protecting her nose and mouth. There’s still that tiny voice in her head that considers saying yes to the drug, but this time, for the first time, the second voice in her head, the one saying **_no_ ** is much louder. She can and she will move on.

 

* * *

 

**Clarke, April 4th 2150**

 

From behind her back, Clarke lets the black scarf fall out the large open window of the Council Room. So far the plan has worked, with Jaha as her prisoner, drugged at her feet, she’s been able to capture Alie’s attention. Now the two stand facing each other. Clarke has to struggle not to look tense or hold her breath. She has sent the signal, now at any moment the bombs will go off, covering the city and specifically the Tower with a smoke that will knock them all out. Clarke tries not to think about the bomb that she knows has been placed near the base of the Tower. Smarter minds than hers have said it’s close enough to cover the Tower in Monty’s drug, but not so close as to bring the Tower collapsing down around her.

Clarke’s still not wild about this part of the plan, particularly, but she’s been promised the smoke will do no harm to her and she’s happy to be knocked out if it means taking down Alie too.

“Are you going to kill me Clarke?”

Alie had been livid when she stormed into the Tower, demanding to see Thelonious. Only the gun, currently aimed at her chest, has been holding Alie at the far end of the room. Clarke’s hand is sweating around the grip of the gun as she keeps it aimed directly at Alie.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think you will. You did not kill me before, and if you were going to do it this time you would have done so already.”

Clarke tightens her hold on her weapon, focusing all her energy on keeping her arm steady.

“If you are thinking you can wait until your friends set off whatever they had planned from underground, you will be waiting a long time.”

Alie meets Clarke’s eyes and Clarke instantly scolds herself for letting a flash of panic cross her features. It’s clear that Alie has registered it.

“Your people will be in my custody by now and soon they too will be cured. There is an army of two thousand, ready to fight for me right now. And if you think that my death will change their desire to attack, you are mistaken. They are loyal. They will avenge me. Your little band of protectors hiding underground and in the secret passageways of this building won’t last long. By killing me you are killing them and everyone else you have ever known or loved on this planet. I am the only one who can help you. The only one who can help you achieve what you really want.”

Fear courses through Clarke’s veins, paralyzing her with indecision. With no knock-out gas from Monty and Jasper to come, Clarke’s only remaining option is to shoot Alie now, but if she does and that army attacks they will be overwhelmed. Once again Clarke finds herself forced to make a decision with everyone’s lives at stake. She needs more time; she needs to know more.

“Offering someone a hallucination of what they want is not the same thing as giving it to them.”

“No. Not the City of Light for you Clarke Griffin, I’m talking about what you _really_ want. The safety of your people.”

“This isn’t safety!”

“This is safer than any peace you could ever offer them. Do you really believe the fighting will ever truly stop? Can you really trust anyone’s word when they have broken it so many times before? Humans will continue trying to destroy themselves so long as they remain so unhappy, so angry. The dye has already been cast. The end is on its way. This planet was destroyed long ago and soon the destruction will be complete. I am offering you peace amongst the oncoming chaos. It is the only chance your people have of being happy.”

Alie’s words land heavy on Clarke’s soul. What if she’s right? What if there are new horrors awaiting them on this planet and this is their best option for survival?

“Be a real leader Clarke. Think of what is best for your people. Trust me, and together we will save them all.”

 _Together._ The word awakens something inside of Clarke. She hears it echoing inside her head in Bellamy’s voice, pledging the word. Suddenly she’s aware how brightly coloured the room around her is. Bellamy must be close, at the top of the ladder in the passageway. He’s here, he's got her back, and whatever new threat this Earth might have in store for them, they’ll face it. Together. And if they have to face an army first, so be it.

Clarke’s finger pulls back against the trigger. The recoil is hard and familiar, juddering up her arm as she fires. There is the crack of gunfire and the slump of a body.

Alie looks more human in death than she ever did alive.

There is stillness in the Council Room. For one half of a heart beat Clarke wonders if nothing will happen after all. Then the world explodes around her.

The doors around Clarke burst open. Bellamy’s defensive line has finally been pushed back into the Council Room, and dozens of people pour inside, filling the space with shouts and cries and the deafening crashes of colliding weapons. _Thousands of warriors,_ that’s what Alie had promised, and it looks like she wasn’t exaggerating. They’re everywhere and more keep coming, pouring into the room from all sides.

Clarke’s people are doing their best. Octavia and Lincoln fight like a well oiled machine, slicing attackers at the knees, disarming or incapacitating wherever they can. Roan burns through Alie’s minions like fire to kindling. Echo has his back, her movements swift and furious. Bellamy and Miller’s defensive movements are slower, more careful, but brutally efficient. And they have others to support them, other Grounders from the tunnels, who pledged to help defeat Alie. All together, they’re doing the best they can to keep the vengeful mob at bay. But it’s not enough. They’re outnumbered and fighting at a disadvantage, because while they’re doing everything they can not to kill, it’s clear their opponents have no such hesitation. If Alie was right about Jasper and Monty being held captive, if there really is no knock-out gas coming, they are all doomed.

Suddenly, a minion breaks off from attacking Echo and makes a surging beeline for Clarke. He gets so close that Clarke can smell his stinking breath, sweet and sickly from the drug, before Echo’s hauling him back, ramming the blunt edge of her bow against his skull.

More and more of them are coming directly for her now, other fights abandoned in favour of charging for Clarke. She jerks back, fear coursing through her. They know what she did and - like Alie promised - they want revenge.

She tries to shoot some in the legs to slow them down, but her hands are shaking badly now and her aim is terrible. And anyway, it’s not enough - not enough bullets, not enough time, not enough space. They keep coming, and soon they have her backed up against the wall. Abandoning her gun, Clarke has no choice but to swing her long knife wildly in front of her, a desperate attempt to hold back the horde. It was never going to work for long. Within moments one of her attackers has grabbed her hand by the wrist, twisting painfully until she releases the knife. Sharp, hot pain blooms across Clarke’s side as one of her attackers slices her across the ribs. She can feel blood pouring down her side, even as she raises her arms against another attack. This time, the knife bites into the flesh of her forearm, slamming her against the wall.

A fist coming flying from the left and before Clarke can so much as register the oncoming threat, it’s making contact with the side of her face. Her head snaps to the side, straining her neck and filling her mouth with the metallic tang of blood. Without warning, her feet are kicked out from under her. She lands heavy on the ground, her knees slamming to the floor, the wind knocked from her lungs. The world is spinning now, her vision a tangle of booted feet and blurred motion. There must be at least five figures above her, their kicks landing on her in relentless waves. She hears the crack of bone and screams that must be her own and _pain._ The roar of desperate battle fills her senses, booming in her ears, and Clarke closes her eyes, willing it all to just be over.

Suddenly, the attack stops. Clarke opens her eyes. A new figure is standing over her. The figure’s back is to her, but Clarke can see that she is fighting wildly, with no regard for sparing the lives of Clarke’s attackers. This warrior has placed herself squarely in front of Clarke, protecting her from harm. And everything about her - her stance, the graceful whirl of her weapons - feels familiar. Feels safe. Clarke still can’t see her face, but she knows. It’s Lexa.

Clarke wants to get up off the ground, to sit up, to help her. But as she starts to move, a thick grey smoke rushes through the room, billowing in through the wide window.

The last thing Clarke sees before everything goes dark is the silhouette of her saviour against the pluming grey smoke, her hair glowing a bright white.

 

* * *

 

**Jasper, April 4th 2150**

 

 _Final bomb is set. I repeat final bomb is set._ Raven’s muffled voice comes in through the radio.

“Finally, it’s about time. Tell her to hurry her ass up, Clarke should be in place by now.”

Ignoring Jasper, Monty leans onto the microphone. “Great job Raven.” Then with a glance up at Jasper he adds, “Now get back here fast before the signal from Clarke.”

Monty then goes back to carefully watching over the six remote detonation triggers that he and Raven had managed to rig up with some handy salvage the grounders had stored away in one of these tunnels.

They had set up their base at the far end of one tunnel in a one of their storage containers. It was relatively clean and dry in here, but most importantly quite close to the surface of the earth, which was necessary so that their detonators were in rage of the bombs. It was a pretty claustrophobic place to work, but then the Ark had been claustrophobic too.

Jasper leans back in his chair to look down the tunnel towards the far end, where a Grounder is looking out for Clarke’s signal. At least there had been a Grounder there a minute ago…

The warriors of both Arkadia and Polis, ready to liberate the city from Alie, were all standing by in the secret passageway of the Tower. As soon as the bombs had cleared they would then come out to organize and take care of the people of the city. At least that was the plan. But why wasn’t anyone standing by at the end of their tunnel anymore?     

“Hey Monty…” Jasper starts but before he can finish forming his fear, it’s confirmed by a scream, followed by the sounds of hand to hand combat at the end of the tunnel.

“Monty! They’re in the tunnels!”

Monty grabs the radio, “RAVEN WHERE ARE YOU. THEY FOUND THE TUNNELS. RAVEN THEY KNOW!”

Jasper can feel his heart hammering painfully inside his chest as he catches a glimpse through the shadows. More and more of Alie’s minions are leaping down into the tunnels, overwhelming their defences. There are so many of them, for a moment Jasper can only stare in dull shock.

_“SEAL YOURSELVES IN. I WON’T MAKE IT BACK IN TIME. I SAW THE SIGNAL. DO IT NOW!”_

As soon as Raven’s command registers, Jasper starts moving. That was the other reason they had set up in this old storage container: it has a door.

Jasper looks up just in time to glimpse the whites of a pair of eyes, feral and bloodthirsty, pelting down the tunnel towards them. He yanks with all of his might, but the door is old and rusted in its position. Monty is at his side before he can think to call for his help and they heave together, finally pulling the heavy metal door smashing closed. Jasper slides the metal rebar through the mechanism of the door, locking it in place.

“How… how did they know?” Monty gasps, out of breath. “How did they find us?”

“Doesn’t matter how. Every part of this plan has been batshit, any one of a million things could have tipped her off. Point is, she knows, but she wasn’t able to get us.” Jasper rests his hands on Monty’s shoulders, partly to steady himself, partly to steady Monty. “That’s the important part. She might think she has the tunnels, but she doesn’t have us, and we’re what matters. You heard Raven, Clarke sent the signal. So now it’s time to finish this.”

“But if the tunnels are breached, that means the other passageways are probably breached too.”

“All the more reason for us to do this thing _now.”_

“But…” there is hesitation and fear in Monty’s voice that Jasper can’t account for.

“What’s the problem?”

“They’ll all be exposed now. They're all in the bomb radius. All of them.”

“That’s okay…” Jasper replies hesitantly, “it is safe, right?”

“It- It- I think it is.” Monty stutters feverishly. “But- but what if I’m wrong? If my calculations are off by even a fraction, we could kill them all. I can’t do it.”   

“What do you mean you can’t do it?”

“I can’t do that, Jasper.” The panic has now taken Monty over completely. He looks wild and terrified. “I can’t be responsible for everyone’s lives like that. Not again. They could die, and it will be all my fault. All my fault.”

Understanding swoops through Jasper with a sickening lurch. He tightens his hold on Monty’s shoulders, his fingers pressing firm and steady.

“Hey. Monty, listen. It is _not_ all your fault.” Jasper speaks in a slow, clear voice. “Everyone had their part to play in this, everyone contributed, discussed, and agreed to this plan. Whatever’s gone wrong so far, we all share the blame in that. And if something does go wrong with this knock out drug, then we’ll share the blame in that too. This is not all on you.”

“What if there is another way? What if we don’t need to do this now?”

“What if everyone will die if we don’t?” He watches as this idea registers on Monty’s face. “There might be another way, but this is the best choice we can make with the info we've got. That's all anyone can do, man.”

Slowly, Monty nods. There is only one thing left for them to do.

Monty moves towards the detonators and Jasper follows at his side, watching as he readied the detonator.

“You’re not in this alone.” Acting on instinct, Jasper places his hand over the detonator. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you were.”  

Together they trigger the bombs.

 


	27. April 5th 2150: New Leadership

 

**Clarke, April 5th 2150**

 

Colours dance in front of Clarke’s eyes, hazy and indistinct, swimming in her vision. Voices are all around her but she can’t sort the sounds into words. Then one voice comes into focus above all the noise, familiar and comforting.

“Clarke. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Bellamy’s voice is rough and hoarse but she feels instantly reassured by its presence. She can feel his warm hands around her palm, his fingers lacing through hers.

“We did it Clarke. You did it. Now just rest. Everything’s going to be alright.”    

_ They did it.  _ Clarke wants to respond. She has a million questions to ask, but before she has a chance to formulate even one, she feels the tug of unconsciousness pulling her under once more. 

 

\--

 

When she wakes again, this time the world comes into sharp relief. The bed she’s lying on is stripped down, only a light cotton sheet is spread out around her. She doesn’t recognize her surroundings, but she feels instantly safe. It takes her a moment to realize why: the room is drenched in colour, golden sunlight beaming through a window on the far side of the room. Clarke pulls herself up to look around, expecting to find Bellamy. The moment she moves, her ribs scream in protest, a sharp pain radiating through her side. When her hand moves to clutch at her injury, she notices the large bandages that cover both her forearms. 

She resumes looking for Bellamy, more careful this time, and is surprised to find someone else watching over her.

“Your  _ keryon-ai  _ was here. In fact he was here most of the night, but he was finally forced to leave to deal with those who are now waking from the witch’s poison.”

Clarke’s mind is sluggish, it takes her long seconds to process what’s been said. She’s only just fully registered the delicate form of Cinna standing at the foot of her bed when she speaks again.

“He will want to be told of your waking.” Cinna turns to address a guard, standing at silent attention by the far door. “Inform King Bellamy that Queen Clarke is awake.” The guard nods and exits the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Clarke’s tongue feels thick and heavy in her mouth when she tries to speak. She swallows twice and tries again. “We’re not King and Queen.”

Her words are slow and slurred, but Cinna doesn’t seem to mind. The ghost of a smile graces her lips. “Oh no? You are the leaders of your Clan, your people answer to you, you govern in their best interest. What would you call it?”

“Co-Chancellors.”

Cinna shrugs as though this is semantics. Maybe it is, Clarke is far too tired to care.  

Her eyes catch on the vibrant green leaves woven into Cinna’s hair. She wonders how far away Bellamy is right now. For the world to still be so bright, their rage must finally be back. Warmth floods through her and a smile flicks across her face at the thought. 

Feeling a little more awake now, Clarke takes in the room around her. She can tell by the look and feel of the room that she must be somewhere in the Tower, but she’s never been here before. Half a dozen other beds line the room, all in a row along one wall. Some of them look like they were occupied very recently, but they’re all empty now.

“I’m sure he will be here soon,” Cinna speaks again, drawing Clarke’s gaze back to her. “It is smart – your rule together – the longest and most prosperous reigns in history have always been when a matched pair rule together. I predict great things from you, Clarke Griffin.” Cinna hesitates for a moment and then adds. “Thank you.”

Cinna turns to leave. Before she can think better of it, Clarke calls out to her retreating back. “I need to ask you something.”

Cinna stops and brings her attention gracefully back to Clarke, waiting for her to elaborate.

“During the battle. You saved my life.” It sounds more accusatory than Clarke had intended it to.

“You said you had a question,” Cinna replies calmly.

“ _ Why? _ You killed those people.  _ Your people. _ We weren’t supposed to harm them but after they attacked me, you stopped them. You killed them to save me.”

Cinna takes a long breath before responding. “The Spirit of the Commander once made a promise to protect you. That promise still stands.”

Clarke’s stomach bottoms out. “Do- do you remember…”

“I remember a great deal. But I am not her.”

Clarke nods, shaken. 

“Today you achieved what Lexa always wanted for you,” Cinna folds her hands in front of her, regarding Clarke steadily. “The problem was, Lexa thought respect and peace could be demanded. They cannot. They can only be earned. That is what you have done. You have earned your place at our table, long may we sit together.”

Clarke lets all of this sink into her still groggy head. A memory tugs at her thoughts.

“Lexa once told me that what she should have done, if she was smart, was kill me. Right when she first brought me to Polis. She said if she’d killed me publically, that it would have solved everything.”

Cinna doesn’t look surprised to hear this. “Yes. It probably would have.” Her tone is clinical, but not unkind. “However, I can see why she didn’t kill you, Clarke Griffin.”

Just then the door bursts open and Bellamy is standing on the threshold. When he catches Clarke’s eye and sees her sitting up, a grin lights up his entire face.

Cinna moves past Bellamy to exit the room.

“Thank you, Commander,” Clarke calls after her.

Cinna gives a small nod and glides out of the room, closing the door with a soft click behind her.

Clarke brings her eyes back to Bellamy, who is nervously taking her in.

“How are you?” she asks, noticing a large purple bruise around his eye and a fresh cut on his arm.

“Me? I’m fine, how are  _ you?” _

“Fine.”

“Oh right, because three cracked ribs, a concussion, severe internal bruising, and a gash along your arms that nearly cut to the bone is just another average day for you, right?”

Clarke winces at the list of her injuries but can’t help returning the smirk that creeps across Bellamy’s face as he says it.

He sits down beside her at the edge of her bed. “You gave us a scare there, Princess.”

“Didn’t you hear? I’m a Queen now.”

Bellamy’s laugh is warm and wonderful in Clarke’s ears.

“Well, your sense of humour is clearly unharmed.”      

“How is everyone else? What happened?”

“Everyone’s fine. Some minor cuts and bruises here and there, but nothing too serious.”

Clarke breathes a sigh of relief, sinking back against the pillows of her bed.

“But so what happened?” she asks again.

“Well, you might remember we were kind of screwed. Alie’s army found the tunnels and drew our defensive line out into fighting on the street. Meanwhile, we were overwhelmed by an army of our own up here. That’s when our favourite bomb makers swooped in and saved the day. They were finally able to knock everyone, including all of us, out. The saving grace turned out to be that if you weren’t on Alie’s drug already, you came around much quicker. So fortunately, after a brief nap, we were able to at least get them all somewhere secure before any of them woke up.”

“And are they awake now?”

“Only just, yeah, some of them are starting to wake now. But we’ve provided them all with Jasper’s medicine and it seems like it’s helping a lot. Some of the same stuff we saw before in Arkadia, but nothing we can’t handle.”  

Clarke smiles as she meets his rich brown eyes. It’s not a boast. There is no bravado behind it. It is simply the truth.

“Nothing we can’t handle.”  

 

* * *

 

**Marcus, April 5th 2150**

 

They’ve come so far.

The camp is alive with noise and activity. As Kane walks through the main square, everywhere he looks people are working together to organize and straighten out large pieces of scrap metal. Before they left for Polis, Bellamy and Clarke ordered a complete inventory of all available scrap metal. Everything they had from their own wreck, and everything they could salvage from the other wrecks. The plan is to start building. The Grounders are going to show them how to use logs to form secure structures, and then they will combine those with whatever sheet metal they have to create well insulated roofs. Kane has to admit it’s a good plan. A very good plan. Progress is coming, he can feel it in the air. It’s buzzing all around them, exciting and hopeful. Things will get better for them here on Earth. This feels like a tangible move forward. It’s also smart to keep everyone busy. Since coming off of the drug there has been a restless feeling throughout the camp. Now that energy has real purpose.

Kane only wishes he shared the people’s renewed sense of meaning and drive. He’s not sure what his role is now, in this new Arkadia. He is no longer the leader the people need or want, he can accept that. But accepting what he’s  _ not _ is easy. The much harder question is,  _ what does that make him now? _

Abby has been avoiding him, but it’s easy to find her – even without colour guiding him, he knows where she is. It’s the same place she’s been since they both came down off the drug. As he approaches the doorway of the small medical office adjacent to the larger Medical Bay, he sees her rifling through boxes of supplies.    

“Abby…” he starts, waiting for her to look up at him. Instead she moves on to the next box of supplies, searching for something. “What are you doing?” he tries again.

She starts muttering under her breath, growing more and more agitated as she says something about supplies to treat a fever and the flu and sickness spreading through camp. Finally, Kane crosses the room and takes her hands in his, pulling her attention towards him.

“Stop, Abby.” She finally looks up at him. “It’s okay.”  

“No, it’s not okay,” Abby retorts as she breaks free of his grasp and goes back to looking through the next box of supplies. 

He watches her, his concern mounting. “What's going on with you? You've haven't talked to me in days, you barely leave Medical… Abby, I'm worried about you.”

Abby gives no indication that she's heard him.

Marcus hesitates. “Is this about the drug?” he asks quietly. “What did you see when you were under?”

“Nothing!” she snaps. Abby slams the box of supplies down, whirling on Marcus. Her expression is twisted in a painfully familiar look, one that speaks to Kane of a deep well of guilt. “I saw myself doing nothing. No responsibilities, no work to do. And I gave in to that. In doing so, I put everyone in danger.”

Kane’s chest cracks at her words, sympathy and sorrow warring in his blood. “Abby.” He reaches for her again, his hands trembling. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have broken free from the drug, it was too powerful-”

_ “They _ did. They fought it, they got free, and had to come rescue  _ us-” _

“Abby,” Kane moves closer to her again, but she cuts him off.

“There is so much to do, Marcus, Clarke, she's - she's taking on so much, more than she knows. I spent so long being unable to help her, the least I can do now is try to make up for lost time. So please, leave me alone and let me finish this.”  

He wants to protest further, but is interrupted by loud footsteps marching determinedly into the room.

“Where is Green?” Harper’s voice is hard and accusatory. 

Looking at Harper standing there, hands on her hips and spitting fire, Kane is suddenly struck that he never noticed how tall she is.

“Wha-?” Abby stutters, looking confused.

“Monty’s in Polis…” Marcus begins, sure he’s missing something.

“Not him,” snaps Harper dismissively. “Hannah Green. Where is she? The guards said you released her for medical supervision?” This to Abby, her words sharp as cut glass.

“Yes, of course. Hannah.” Abby says, nodding. “I had to, she had a fever and flu symptoms, I brought her here for rest.”

“Where is she now?” Harper demands, striding over to look through at the beds in the adjacent Medical Bay. 

Abby follows her and stops in her tracks as they both take in the row of empty beds.

“She- she was here, she must have woken up and left.”

“YOU LET HER GO!” thunders Harper.

“I was busy, Harper. I had-“

“You should have left a guard!”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Abby maintains. “It’s just Hannah, you’re acting like she’s a dangerous criminal.”

“That’s  _ exactly _ what she is.”

“You can’t just lock up every one of Pike’s former followers.”

“Abby, don’t you get it?” Harper takes a breath to steady herself, “yes, plenty of Pike’s former followers have been pardoned. His  _ former _ followers. Hannah Green has openly rejected the new leadership of Arkadia, threatened further violence to the Grounders - our  _ allies _ \- and remains loyal only to Pike. That is why she was still under guard. You had no authority to release her.” 

“I had every authority,” Abby exclaims with renewed vigor. “She needed a doctor, and I’m her doctor!”

“So treat her in prison.” Harper’s voice turns cold. “You may be a good doctor Abby, but you were a lousy…”

The end of Harper’s sentence trails off as she stops herself from finishing it, but the word remains in the air, heard by all despite not being voiced.

Harper turns to leave, but Abby calls after her, not finished yet.

“So what’s the big plan then? Keep Pike and Hannah, and anyone else who disagrees with you, in prison until you can decide how and when best to kill them? Or maybe you’ll just hand them off to the Grounders to deal with.”

Harper refuses to flinch. She whips back around, her eyes blazing. “Maybe we will.”

“These are your people,” Abby pushes harder. “As a leader you have to understand. It’s not right-”

“Do  _ not _ lecture me on the morality of death row.”    

Harper's words slip like poison into Kane’s blood. They’ve come so far, but they must not forget where they started.

For a moment no one moves. Then Harper turns towards the door once more, but as she does so she collides with a boy, panting for air, his eyes wide with panic.

“Douglas, what is it?”

“It’s Pike. He’s… he's gone. Escaped.” 


	28. April 10th 2150: Going Home

 

**Bellamy, April 10th 2150**

 

Polis has come back to itself again. For over a week now Bellamy has helped watch over the city as it healed, but now it’s time to go home.

He sits on a wide bench near the entrance to the city, surveying his handiwork. Across the stress is a small hut that he’d helped repair, under the guidance of those twins from the Blue Cliffs. They’d shown him all the best ways of using lumber to create permanent, strong structures. Bellamy can’t wait to use everything he’s learned. With new skills, trade, and materials, they can finally get started building and expanding Arkadia in the same way.

The morning sun crests over the roofs of Polis, the sky already a bright, dazzling blue. He knows Clarke is all the way back in the Tower checking in on the remaining drug patients, but their range is truly back now, and Bellamy feels lighter than he has in months.

He looks around to find Octavia standing behind him, holding two cups of something steaming. He jumps, startled at her sudden appearance. She was always light on her feet, but these days she could sneak up on anyone.

“Hey,” she says, casually holding out one of the mugs, smiling a little at having made him jump.

“Hey yourself.” He accepts the mug with a smile, shifting slightly on the bench to make room for her.

“I repaired the market stall for the guy who sells these drinks, so now I think I have a lifetime supply.” She offers in explanation before he can get around to asking the question. “Try it, it’s good.”

Bellamy brings the hot liquid up to his lips slowly. It’s bitter, but not unpleasant, and at the same time there’s something sweet about it too, maybe cinnamon.

‘Thanks, it’s good.”

They both sip their drinks for a moment before Octavia asks, “when will Raven be here with the rover?”

“Should be soon now.” 

Lincoln and Raven had gone to retrieve the rover from where they’d stashed it by the entrance to the Polis tunnels. Back then, they’d driven hard to get to Polis, all of them cramped in the back of the van. Now, the van’s going to be loaded up with the supplies and winter food stores that Cinna has graciously offered them as a gift. She’d done it casually, but they all knew that it was a huge offer and would make all the difference in the world for the people of Arkadia.

“So what are you going to do about Jaha?” Octavia asks, blunt as ever.

“He’ll be sent back to Arkadia in the rover as well. We’ll find a punishment for him. The thing is, it’s hard to say how much of what he did was just because of Alie. Everyone else has been pardoned for what they did under her control. What he did was more, and worse. Personally, I think he is responsible, but we need to keep him under surveillance for a bit longer to really determine how much of a threat he is.”

“And Pike?”

“Roan wants Pike.”

Octavia nods, short and sharp. “And you’re going to give him up?” There’s no judgement in her voice, just understanding.

“I think we have to.” Bellamy sighs, resigned. “Roan’s coming with us back to Arkadia to collect him and bring him back to Azgeda to stand trial.”

Part of Bellamy wants Octavia to challenge him, to tell him that they can’t give up their people like that, but she doesn’t. She just nods again.  

Then, after a moment, “you’re going to be a great co-Chancellor, big brother.”

Bellamy looks over at Octavia, a little taken aback by her compliment. “Thanks, O.”

“Just promise me you won’t push Clarke away again, okay? Promise me you won’t try to do it all on your own.”    

“I won’t,” Bellamy assures her. He’s definitely learned that lesson the hard way.

The sound of rover tires interrupts them and Octavia leaps up. Bellamy wants to keep her here. This conversation suddenly feels important and he has a lot of things he wants to say.

“O,” he stops her, as the rover appears through the gates of the city. He’s out of time, so he just says. “You know I love you. No matter what, yeah?”

“Yeah.” she smiles. “I know.”

The appearance of the rover has caught the attention of the others too. Within minutes Jasper, Monty, Bryan and Tolk all arrive. They walk slow and awkward, carrying large crates of supplies between them. 

“Pickled green beans, and peppers, and cucumbers!” Jasper yelps in delight as he rifles through the contents of his crate.

“Salted meat that isn’t mystery rodent!” Monty joins in the excitement. “You know what this means, Jasper? We’ll be able to make soup! Just like back up on the Ark.”   

“I have some dried squid in this crate for you,” Tolk offers up, “serve it with a jar of that spicy sauce and you’ll be eating like a King. Literally. It’s my father’s favourite dish.”

“Squid? Really?” Bryan asks. The quirk of his eyebrow is both skeptical and slightly disgusted.

“Absolutely! Though it’s best if it’s set over a fire in a little bit of cooking fat before it’s served.” Then, off of Bryan’s continued look of doubt, he adds. “I guess I’ll just have to come with you and show you how.”

Bryan grins. “I guess you will.” Then something flashes across his face as he notices Bellamy standing there. He turns to Bellamy awkwardly. “Um, that is, Bellamy, if it’s okay with you and Clarke that Tolk comes with us to see Arkadia?”

“Of course,” Bellamy says quickly. Then, addressing Tolk, he adds, “You will always be welcome in Arkadia, Tolk. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

“Thank you.” Tolk responds, accepting his invitation with a glowing smile.

“Alright kiddos!” Raven calls to them all, hoisting herself down from the driver’s seat, “lets get this baby packed up and hit the road!”      

They all pick up their crates and lift them into the back of the rover before going to get more.

“Hey! Word on the streets is that you guys are hitting the road?”

Bellamy looks over to find Murphy sauntering towards him. He looks… well... he’s looked better. The drug really did a number on Murphy during the battle, and it took him longer than most of the others to come around. He looks a little unsteady on his feet, but his expression is warm when he arrives at Bellamy’s side.  

“Yeah,” Bellamy confirms, “it’s time we got home.”

Murphy bites the inside of his cheek, nodding absently. 

“You know you could come with us, right?” Bellamy says. He realizes, with a pang of guilt, that he hadn’t even offered. 

Murphy’s smile is wry. “Thanks, but I don’t see that happening. I was never really one of you guys anyway, and the Ark wasn’t even my home when it was still in the sky. Now it’s even less so.”

Bellamy can’t say he’s surprised. “What’ll you do instead?”

“We just came from an audience with Cinna, actually. Emori’s been granted some kind of special dispensation to remain in Polis indefinitely. No more dead zone, no more City of fucking Light. We’ve been granted a market stall and a hut in the city’s fourth circle. So I guess we’ll stay here, see how that goes.”

“That’s great, Murphy!” Bellamy pauses, considering. “But you’re wrong, you know. Whatever else... you’ll always be one of us. Whether you like it or not.”

Murphy laughs. “I’ll remember that. Members of the Original Hundred Club get a 10-percent discount at our market stall.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Bellamy reaches out his hand, shaking Murphy’s. “Good luck.”

“You too, co-Chancellor.”

 

\--

 

It takes a while to load the supplies into the rover. Bellamy’s been spending at least ten minutes carefully shifting the crates so they’ll all fit into the back of the van. Suddenly, he becomes aware of a presence looming behind him, a shadow casting across the crate Bellamy was trying to wrestle into a stable position. 

Flinching hard, Bellamy spins around to find Lincoln directly behind him. “God, we need to put bells on you two or something!”

Lincoln ignores his comment. “We should be ready to leave within the hour.”

“Great,” Bellamy smiles. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to get going. We’ve overstayed our welcome here as it is.”

Lincoln looks for a second like he wants to disagree. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, clearly concerned about something.

“What’s up?” Bellamy prompts. 

“You cannot cut ties from Polis.”

The comment startles Bellamy. He blinks at Lincoln, a little confused. “I know that. We’re allies now, of course-”

“No, it’s more than that.” Lincoln frowns and reaches out to place a hand on Bellamy’s elbow. His grip is firm as he leads Bellamy away from the bustling group by the rover. “Not here,” he mutters. 

Bemused, Bellamy follows Lincoln’s lead. They follow the path a little ways past the rover, out through the main gates and into wide valley surrounding the walls of Polis.

“You don’t have to worry,” Bellamy says once they’re alone, “it’s not like I’m going to try and start a war. Again.”

“I know you’re not, that’s not the issue.” Lincoln sighs and turns around. “Bellamy, have you given any thought to appointing your ambassador?”

“I-” Bellamy pauses, thinks. “No. I know Commander Cinna mentioned we would need one, but we have time. Clarke and I still need to get officially elected back home before we can start appointing ambassadors.”

Lincoln nods, though the concerned look on his face doesn’t go away. “Do not delay, once you are elected. It will be critical to have someone you can trust in Polis. I think it will be okay, I truly think Cinna and Roan and the others will keep their word, but you cannot afford to be without a voice on the council.”

“Are you volunteering?”

A laugh escapes from Lincoln, loud and caught off guard. _ “Jok _ , no. Absolutely not.”

Disappointment sinks through Bellamy’s chest. “Are you sure? There’s no one I would trust more.” 

Lincoln’s answering smile is kind and genuine. “Thank you for the offer. I might take you up on that, someday. For now, I do not think I would have the patience for it. Besides, I think Octavia would sooner break our match than watch me go into politics.”

Bellamy laughs, “yeah, that’s probably true.”

“Bellamy?” Miller’s voice calls through the trees. Bellamy can just make out his figure, standing by the main gate. 

“Coming!” Bellamy calls back, turning to walk with Lincoln back towards their friends. 

“In any case, think on it,” Lincoln says as they rejoin the group by the rover, “I am sure you will make a great choice.”

“Thanks.” Bellamy claps a friendly hand on Lincoln’s back, warm with the praise.

“Hey,” Miller cuts in as they approach. He looks over at their people, loading supplies. “There won’t be enough space for us in the rover once it’s loaded up.”

Bellamy nods. “Yeah. Raven’s going to drive it back with Jaha and the supplies in the back. The rest of us will just have to make the journey on foot.”

“It’s going to be a slow journey back without the rover,” Lincoln points out.

“I know, but the food when we get home will be worth it.” 

“I don’t think we can’t walk through the night,” Miller adds. “Not now. We’ll have to camp somewhere.”

“I know a good place.” A ghost of a smile twitches across Bellamy’s face at the idea. 

 

* * *

 

**Bryan, April 10th 2150**

 

“You’re going to love it!” Tolk calls over his shoulder. 

Bryan, Octavia, and Lincoln follow in his wake as he skips ahead, down a steep scree slope, to a dry ravine bed. He leads them along with an excited wave. “It’s the best fishing spot this side of the Rock Line.”

They’re only a few hours from Arkadia now, but Bellamy and Clarke insisted on camping at the dropship for the night, before continuing on to Arkadia tomorrow morning. Everyone’s tired from the events in Polis, and the need to get home is not so great to be worth risking the trek through the forest in the dead of night. The dropship makes an easy camping spot. At the moment, Bryan would much rather be back with the rest of them, keeping warm inside the dropship, or helping set up the fire. 

Sadly for Bryan’s numb toes, he’s been tasked with the food-sourcing portion of setting up camp. While the others find wood for fire and water for boiling, Tolk, Lincoln, Octavia and Bryan have been sent to find something - pretty much anything - for everyone to eat. Bryan supposes there’s some logic in sending them. Lincoln and Octavia are expert trackers, and Tolk is a far better fisherman than anyone from Skaikru – according to him, anyway. For his part, Bryan is one of their best foragers. He’s already got a half-full sack of edible leaves and berries slung across his back to prove it. Plus, they’re matched pairs, so it’s harder for them to get separated.

Yeah… that’s not going to stop being weird anytime soon.

Bryan sets his gaze to the towering tree-line, where the setting sun is throwing up electric pink and purple shadows, smeared across half the sky. If he wasn’t seeing it with his own eyes, he would never believe anything like that could exist. In the past couple of days, Bryan has caught himself taking in the colour around him - a mountain painted with emerald, each pine tree richer and more detailed than he’d ever realized, or the auburn flecks of his own hair, reflected back to him in a dusty mirror - and every time, for a moment, he’s convinced it’s a trick. That he’s still under the influence of Alie’s drug, and any second he’s going to blink and the magic will be gone. Then, like now, Bryan will look around and find Tolk watching him with a knowing smile, the same wonder and surprised joy in his expression.

Tolk reaches for him now, his gaze following Bryan’s up to the sunset exploding over their heads, and wraps his fingers around the back of Bryan’s hand. How long will it take before even the lightest touch no longer sends a spark of excitement all the way up Bryan’s arm? He hopes a very, very long time.

“Come on, young god.” As soon as his hand is gripping Bryan’s, Tolk tugs, hard, pulling Bryan forward with him along the ravine floor. Water splashes under their boots as Bryan follows Tolk towards this supposed fishing haven.

“Young god?” Bryan parrots back to him, cheeks flaming at the nickname. “Hardly.”

“Hardly young, or hardly a god?”

“Both.”

Tolk chuckles, his grip tightening around Bryan’s hand. “I’m not great with tracking the years, but at a guess I’m thinking we’re around the same age, and I refuse to accept that  _ I’m _ old, so you’re just going to have to take my word for it on that. As to being a god… well, tell me, Bryan, did you or did you not swan dive straight from the heavens to join us down here on Earth? Seems god-like enough for me.”

“If you think the Ark was heaven, you clearly haven’t heard enough stories about it.”

Tolk laughs at this. It’s a rich, warm sound, smooth and easy, and exactly the sound Bryan’s been dreaming about since the moment he first heard it.

Behind them, Lincoln and Octavia bring up the rear of their hunting party, much less hurried than Tolk is to reach their destination. “You know,” Octavia’s voice floats thoughtfully towards them on the still air. “I think I’ve been here before.”

The ravine floor turns from a thin trickle of water, to a slightly less thin brook, to a full blown stream as they follow it into the trees. Soon, they emerge in a lush enclosure. The centre of the clearing is dominated by a placid pool, reflecting the multi-coloured sunset. On all sides, rich greenery fills Bryan’s senses, bursting with the smell of spring-blooming wildflowers.

It would be idyllic, utterly beautiful, if it weren’t for the three people who were already making camp in the clearing. A shock of guilt and fear strikes through Bryan at the sight  

“Pike!” Bryan shouts. 

Pike locks eyes with Bryan and stands, slowly, from the small fire he had been building. At either side of him, Hannah and Gillmer also rise, gazes flitting between Bryan and Tolk. Suddenly self-conscious, Bryan withdraws his hand from Tolk’s.

“This is Pike?” Tolk asks from the corner of his mouth, eyeing Pike up.

Hardly daring to breathe, Bryan gives a jerking nod.

“What’re you doing here, son?” Pike asks, fixing Bryan with his most innocuous smile.

“We’re… we…”

“Fishing trip!” Tolk says lightly. “What brings you fine folk out here?”

And Bryan does not like the way Gillmer is looking at Tolk. Like he’s something feral, a dog to be put down.

“Didn’t realize we weren’t allowed to go wherever we want,” Gillmer replies, his voice laced with a challenge.

A rustling of ferns behind them signals that Octavia and Lincoln have arrived, Bryan whips around and finds… only Lincoln standing there, taking in the scene with narrowed eyes. _Where’s_ _Octavia?_ Bailing on a fight doesn’t really seem like her style. Bryan tries to mouth a question to Lincoln, but either he doesn’t catch it, or he doesn’t care to answer.

“You can, Gillmer,” Lincoln answers instead, fixing Gillmer with a look of unbridled loathing, ”you too, Hannah,” he nods to Monty’s mom. “Pike, however, will need to come with us. It falls to him to answer for your crimes.”

Lincoln’s words have the immediate effect Bryan expected.

“That’s never going to happen.” Hannah and Gillmer close ranks, withdrawing hunting knives from their belts. Bryan feels a short rush of relief. At least they hadn’t managed to get their hands on any of the guns before they’d fled camp.

At Bryan’s side, Tolk tucks his hands with deliberate nonchalance into his weapons belt. “Three of you, three of us. I’ve fought  _ much _ worse odds.”

“Tolk, don’t-” Fear has become a living creature in Bryan’s chest, trapped under his rib cage and trying make a bid for freedom.

Pike catches the flash of terror in his eyes. “Unlike you to take up with one of them, Bryan. Does this here…” he indicates at Tolk like he’s a beast rather than a person, “does he know what you’ve done? The people you’ve killed?”

“Alright, this is officially getting boring.”

That’s all the warning Tolk gives before he surges towards Pike. 

He’s intercepted by Hannah before he gets there, and immediately starts trying to disarm her instead. Spotting an opportunity, Gillmer lunges for Tolk’s exposed back, only to be caught around the middle by Lincoln. Within seconds, on either side of Bryan, fierce skirmishes have broken out. Meanwhile, Bryan edges carefully towards Pike.

“Please, Pike, I know you wanted the right thing for us. I know you only ever wanted us to be safe.” Bryan inches closer. “We’ve figured it out. A way for us to get everything you’ve been fighting for. We don’t have to kill anymore.”

Pike’s face is sad, remorseful rather than angry. “What place is there for me in that world, Bryan? None. You heard Lincoln. The only thing for me in Arkadia is death.”

Bryan has no answer to this, of course, because it’s true. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Pike lunges forward. Before Bryan knows what’s happening, Pike has him by the neck, holding Bryan like a human shield. The cold press of a knife bites into the skin at Bryan’s throat.  _ Shit.  _

“STOP.” Pike’s voice rings out like a gong, directly into Bryan’s ear.

As soon as Lincoln and Tolk catch sight of Bryan, they stop fighting immediately. All of the humour drains from Tolk’s face, his eyes turning cold with fury. He barely seems to notice when Hannah relieves him of his weapons. Distantly, Bryan notices that his own gun has also been unclipped from his belt, the familiar weight missing from his left side.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Pike continues. “You two are going to stand at the far end of the clearing, and  _ stay there, _ until the three of us have packed up and left. If you try to follow us, I’ll kill him.” The knife presses a bit harder, pain prickling Bryan’s skin, drawing a thin trickle of blood from his neck. Some detached part of his brain has just put together that he’s the ‘ _ him’ _ in that sentence. He can feel the erratic thudding of his heart and wonders whether Pike can hear it too, as close as he is. “Once we’ve gone a half-mile, I’ll leave Bryan somewhere you can pick him up.”

Tolk’s face, so rarely anything but jovial, is twisted into a sick grimace. “Your death has been promised to the King of Azgeda, Pike  _ kom Skaikru, _ for war crimes committed against his people. King Roan is a man I hold in great esteem. It is for his sake that your heart has not been torn from your chest. Know this, you disgrace of a man: if you draw a single drop more blood out of my  _ keryon-ai’s _ neck, I will not hesitate to snap yours.”

Pike tsks into Bryan’s ear. “A match, Bryan? I expected so much better from you. If Alie’s experiment taught us anything, it’s that colour is a lie which must never be trusted.”

“That wasn’t the lesson I took from Alie’s attack,” Bryan retorts. 

“It will be.”

Pike’s last words have barely left his lips before five things happen in rapid succession.

One, Pike draws Bryan’s gun with one hand and levels the barrel at Tolk. Two, Pike coughs up blood, smattering crimson onto the green forest floor. Three, Bryan notices the blade protruding from Pike’s chest, bare inches from Bryan’s own back. He leaps away from the tip of the blade, Pike’s grip rapidly going slack. Four, Octavia stands at full height behind Pike, her sword cutting right through Pike’s chest and out the other side. Five, Hannah screams.

“You know what the difference is?” Octavia asks, casually regarding Pike as he struggles to draw his dying breaths. “I don’t give a fuck what Roan thinks.”

“Holy shit,” Bryan mutters, watching Pike fall, watching a pool of red seep out from under his chest, watching it coat Bryan’s boots, getting through the cracks like a puddle on a rainy day, “holy shit.”

“What have you  _ done?”  _ Tolk roars, even as he rushes to Bryan’s side.

“You mean saving the life of you and your match? You’re welcome.” Octavia turns, uncaring, to a shell-shocked Hannah and Gillmer. “Leave now.”

They need no further encouragement. Dropping their stolen weapons at Octavia’s feet, they beat a hasty retreat, promising never to return to Arkadia.

“Oh my god,” Bryan’s still muttering. Pike has gone still at his feet. All the terror that had been held at bay with adrenaline is surging forward now, shooting tremors all the way from his cheeks to the tips of his fingers. He submits without complaint to Tolk’s anxious examination of the thin cut along his neck. 

“How far do you think they’ll get?” Tolk asks, his eyes on the place where Hannah and Gillmer disappeared to.

Octavia only shrugs in response. “I wouldn’t underestimate them. They lived through an Azgeda winter with little to go on.”

“They’ll become another of the outcasts,” Lincoln says, his voice almost sad. “the only place for them now is the Dead Zone.”

“You can live there?” Bryan asks.

“For a time, anyway,” Lincoln says.

Octavia looks down at Pike’s body distastefully. “Think we should bury him?”

“No,” Tolk interrupts forcefully. “He’ll need to be burned in  _ blekfaya _ in tribute to the slain.”

Octavia nods, as though she doesn’t really care one way or the other. “I’ll let you guys handle explaining it to Roan, yeah?” she says, readjusting her weapons belt across her chest.

“Uh… what?”

“No way am I going back there. Maybe Roan’ll be pissed, maybe he’ll get over it. But, well, the truth is that either way I have no intention of going back to Arkadia anyway.” At this, she exchanges a speaking glance with Lincoln. “We’re, uh, we’re going to make our own way.”

Lincoln nods, resolute, and Bryan realizes with a sinking sensation that they’d been  _ planning  _ this. Maybe not all of it, almost definitely not the killing Pike bit, but enough of it. They never intended to go back to Arkadia at all. Bryan can’t help feeling a little tricked as he looks between them.

“You’re leaving,” he repeats, just to make sure he’s understood.

“Yes,” Lincoln and Octavia nod. “There’s no place for us in Arkadia anymore.”

“You’re leaving, and you want  _ us _ to bring Pike’s body back  _ and _ explain to everyone at the dropship what happened,  _ and _ explain that you’re not coming back?” Bryan wishes desperately that  _ anyone else _ was here to handle this. Bellamy, or Clarke, hell even Monty or Jasper or Miller would probably know what he’s supposed to say. Any of them would have more luck than Bryan, who’s barely even spoken to Octavia before. He is entirely the wrong person to be having this conversation…

“It’ll be fine,” Octavia assures him, with the first flash of real kindness that he’s ever seen from her. “They’ll understand.”

Bryan sure as hell hopes so, because he definitely doesn’t.

“Where are you going? The Dead Zone?”

“No,” Lincoln explains, “we’re not exiles. We’re just… nomads. For now, anyway.” 

Octavia pauses. “Tell Bellamy I love him?”

_ Oh good,  _ because Bryan wasn’t feeling awkward enough about having to deliver this message. But he nods anyway, because he knows it’s what she needs.

“Safe passage on your travels.”

“May we meet again.”

 

* * *

 

**Miller, April 10th 2150**

 

The mottled brown firewood piled in his arms grows more vivid a moment before he hears the crunch of footsteps.

“Thought you could use some help.”

Miller turns to smile at Monty as he watches him start to pick up some brush from the forest floor.

“It’s weird. Being back here.” Miller can see the top of the dropship silhouetted against the stunning sunset.

“Yeah,” Monty agrees. “It feels so different now.”

The debris from their battle against the Grounders is still present, ash and charred trees all around them. And while most of the bodies have been cleared from the centre of camp, burnt bones still litter the ground around the forest edge.

“Hard to imagine this was ever home.”

“Yeah.” They both pick up wood in silence for a moment before Monty speaks again. “Hey, um, I’m sorry if you’re- it must be really hard for you, seeing Bryan and Tolk.”

Miller stops reaching for another piece of wood. Instead, he sits down on a mossy log in front of him. Miller had watched Tolk excitedly volunteer them both for a fishing trip before he had left the camp to find firewood. He looks up to meet Monty’s worried and gentle eyes, and knows he has to find a way to explain.

“It’s not easy, no. But at the same time, I’m not mad, or jealous, or anything like that. Honest. Tolk seems like a really great guy and already I’ve seen the positive impact he’s had on Bryan. What they have is something beautiful. How can I be anything but happy for them?”

Monty sits down next to him on the log, letting the firewood he was holding drop at his feet.    

“When we were caught in the smoke, that day we all escaped, I saw what you see. I saw colour.”

The news that Monty saw colour isn’t surprising, from what Miller can tell everyone sees colour when first exposed to the drug, it’s all part of the moment of perfect happiness it shows you. What is surprising, and what makes Miller’s heart lurch is the question:  _ why is Monty telling him this?  _ The two of them have made a point of not talking about Miller’s match. For Monty to bring it up now, without any prompting, sends Miller’s heart hurtling into his throat.

“It was so beautiful,” Monty continues, “And I felt proud that I could bring this world of colour to someone. Especially someone like you.”

Miller has never heard Monty talk like this and he finds he is too scared to speak in case he ruins it somehow.

“Standing there with you, I didn’t know I could feel happiness like that.”

“I- I was there?” Miller stutters, finding his voice at last. Hardly daring to believe that he could be the one responsible for making Monty truly happy.

“Yeah,” a shy smile spreads across Monty’s face, “you were there.”

For what feels like an eternity Miller is sure neither of them breathe. 

“Was- what did you see?” Monty blurts out at last.

Now it’s Miller’s turn to smile at Monty’s sudden nervousness. “I saw you.”

“Really?” Monty asks, and Miller can see that he genuinely isn’t sure, doesn’t know how absolutely vital he is.

“Of course.”

Relief floods Monty’s face, and with a pink flush to his cheeks he asks, “what was it like?”

“It was the purest joy I’ve ever felt,” Miller responds honestly.

“What happened? What did I do?”

“You kissed me.”

Miller watches as Monty’s eyes go wide and the flush in his cheeks turns a bright red.

Miller wonders if he should have lied, sure now that he’s going to scare him off. But Monty doesn’t look away.

All of time stands still as the two stare into each other’s eyes. Miller is positive Monty must be able to hear his heart beating as it pounds, ready to break out of his chest.

Then it happens, so slow at first that Miller is sure he must be mistaken, that it must be a dream. Monty leans towards him and then, delicately, cautiously presses his lips against Miller’s.

For a moment Miller is paralyzed in shock. Terrified that he will wake up from this dream at any moment.

But as he feels the sweet pressure of Monty’s lips increase, something inside of his awakens with a roar of pleasure and he lifts one hand to Monty’s face, the other grabbing hold of his waist as he deepens their kiss.

And it isn’t like the joy of their kiss in the smoke. It’s so, so much better.  

Suddenly they both pull apart as screams and yelling fill the air, because, well, this is Earth and of course there would be some kind of crisis erupting at exactly this moment. That is just Miller’s luck.

“It’s coming from camp.”

“Come on.” Miller grabs hold of Monty’s hand as they both run back to camp, and even though they are in all likelihood running back to something serious, Miller still can’t stop the feeling of immense joy filling his chest.

Roan’s voice bellows clearly through the air as they approach.

“THREE HUNDRED DEATHS! HE WAS TO SUFFER THREE HUNDRED DEATHS! THAT IS WHAT MY PEOPLE ARE OWED!” He then transitions into Trigedasleng so Miller can’t understand what he’s saying, but it sounds like more of the same.

As they enter, Roan is the first figure to draw their eyes. Standing in the middle of camp and furious, he is staring down Tolk, who looks uncharacteristically solemn and unflinching as he accepts Roan’s wrath. Bryan stands a little behind Tolk and Bellamy and Clarke are both near at hand. At first it’s hard to understand what this image could mean, and then Miller sees the body. Pike lies dead at their feet.

Tolk is now responding to Roan in a calm but firm voice, he starts in Trigedasleng and then moves into English. “Believe me, I would not have stolen this life from you. But we were losing, and Octavia saved our lives by taking his. He was a monster who would have taken more from us if we let him live.”    

“Where is she then?” Roan demands.

Miller watches as Bellamy looks from Tolk to Bryan.

“Bellamy, she- she and Lincoln, they- “ Bryan tries to begin, clearly nervous.

“She’s not coming back.” Bellamy saves him from finishing.

Bryan nods, plainly relieved that Bellamy is not about to start raving like Roan has been. “She said to tell you she loves you.”

“Thanks, Bryan,” Bellamy says simply as Clarke places a hand on his arm in support.

“King Roan,” Clarke begins with authority, “this is obviously not what any of us wanted. But let us be thankful that this man was not able to take any more lives from us today. And let us not punish the messengers who bring us this news.”

After a tense moment Roan gives a short nod of acceptance. “And the others that you say were with him?”

“They ran East towards the Dead Zone,” Tolk supplies.   

“If they return, we will bring them to justice for this,” Clarke assures Roan.

By his side, Miller senses Monty’s sudden tension.

“Who was it? Who was with him?”

All eyes turn to Monty for the first time since they arrived back.

As Bryan looks towards Monty, it’s clear what the answer is.

“Gillmer Brock, and Hannah Green.” Bryan states for the group. “I’m sorry Monty.”

“Oh, um, okay, um...” Monty backs away from all the pairs of eyes suddenly upon him. He mumbles an incoherent excuse and then quickly exits the camp back the way they had come.

Miller doesn’t wait long before following after him. He finds him easily, sitting among the graveyard just outside the old wall.  

“Monty, I’m so sorry about your Mom,’ Miller starts as he approaches.

“I- I spoke to her before we left on this mission. I knew she was mad at us for all we had done and for taking control. I knew she was still loyal to Pike and that she didn’t trust Bellamy and hated Clarke. I knew all of that. And yet I refused to believe that she would actually try anything. That she would actually try and break Pike out. That she would prefer life on the run to life in Arkadia without Pike in charge. I asked her to trust me and that we had a plan for real peace and we were going to make things right again. I guess... I guess she didn’t trust me. I should never have been so stupid to believe that she would.”

“Monty, none of this is on you. Of course you had to give her the chance, and her making the wrong call, that’s her mistake, not yours.” 

“And now she’s an outcast.”

Miller can’t think of anything to say, so he simply sits down next to Monty and delicately puts an arm around his shoulder in comfort. After a moment Monty slowly rests his head on Miller’s shoulder.

They sit like that for a long time. 

 

* * *

 

**Echo, April 10th 2150**

 

Echo watches as the rabbits over the fire harden and crisp, cooked to perfection. She carefully slices the meat off the skewer with her knife and collects the food on a scrap piece of metal she has cleaned off and turned into a plate.

She pops one of the pieces of rabbit in her mouth, instantly burning her tongue, but unable to regret it as the sweet, juicy meat fills her senses. Ordinarily she would give Tolk a hard time about the fact that they are about to eat her rabbit and not his fish. But then again, he did return with the body of the most wanted man in Azgeda, so she figures she’ll give him a pass. Just this once. 

She carries the plate over to Bellamy and Clarke, who both sit together just outside the entrance to this odd metal structure that they’re camped at. They both rise to greet her as she approaches, and Echo wonders briefly if she’s interrupting something.

“Here,” she says somewhat awkwardly, holding out the plate to Clarke. “I thought you would want to be the one to distribute the food.”

“Thanks Echo.” Clarke accepts the plate from her hungrily. 

Clarke gives a small nod to Bellamy and goes inside ship – or whatever this thing is – where the rest of their group has taken shelter, leaving Echo standing out here alone with Bellamy.

A silence stretches between them as neither speak or move.  _ Damkt.  _ After everything she’s tried to do to wipe the slate between the two of them clean, she still feels more indebted to this man than ever. Finally, she says the only thing she can think to offer.

“Your sister and her  _ keryon-ai,  _ they are strong and noble warriors. I think they will do well as nomads. And if they ever find themselves in Azgeda, I would happily house them under my roof.” She thinks for a moment and then adds, “no matter what Roan says.”

“Thank you.” She notices Bellamy’s eyes brighten as he says it.

Bellamy turns to look away, and as Echo follows his gaze, she sees him. Roan is crouched on the outskirts of the other side of camp.

“Leave him to me,” she responds in answer to Bellamy’s unvoiced question. 

Her sigh is low and long-suffering. Azgeda men are such hard work. She folds her arms across her chest and crosses over to meet Roan.

He starts fuming and pacing again as she reaches him. “Three hundred deaths. I promised them they would receive justice. How can I return with no proof of the suffering they are owed? How can I face them when they have been so denied their right?”

“Enough, Roan.” Echo cuts over him finally. “You’re not scared to face them because the man they wanted dead is already dead. You are just scared to face them.”

Roan stops in his tracks as he registers what she said. “You DARE-“

“Don’t.” She shuts him down before he can begin. “Please. It’s insulting when you pretend like I don’t know you better than anyone.”

“I- I am their King.”

“Yes. I know that. Do you?”

“I…” He tries to start again but falters. 

“I get it. You’re King of a people you haven’t seen in years. And who you only remember seeing you as second in line.” She has his full attention now. She thinks for a moment he might try to interrupt her again, but he doesn’t. “What you never saw was what it was like the year that you were their heir. After-“ she takes a breath, steadying herself, determined to start saying his name again, “after Taron died, and we lost the rebellion, it was a dark time for our people. Our hunting lands south of the river were suddenly restricted, trade was tough that season, we had a hard winter, and the Queen was... well, she was not herself and everyone could tell. Your name was whispered everywhere as a beacon of hope. You were alive. You had survived. And that meant that this was not over. That you would return one day and that when you did, you would make things right. And Roan, King of Azgeda, that is exactly what you have done. You will return as the hero who restored our self-rule and brought stability to this land once more. You will return with the body of the enemy to burn in tribute for our loss. And you will return with the promise of peace and of a blood debt put to rest at last.”

“And  _ is _ it put to rest?”

“I think it has to be.”

After a moment Roan speaks again. “So then, we go home.”

“Yes.”

Home. The idea seems so strange to Echo now. It feels like forever since she too has seen the Azgeda palace, with its magnificent spires of carved ice. She still fears that without the colour it used to have, it will never again feel the same. Then again, she thinks as she meets Roan’s tentative eyes, maybe it could still be home once more.      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearly at the end now! Just a little bit left...


	29. April 12th 2150: Looking Forward and Back

**Clarke, April 12th 2150**

 

The tables of Arkadia’s Mess Hall have never been so full of food. Clarke sits at the head of one of the long tables and looks around as the entire population of the camp crowds around and takes their places to eat.

It’s official. They had the vote this morning and announced the result this afternoon. She and Bellamy are co-Chancellors. She still finds it all a bit overwhelming. She loves the people in this room and would do anything to protect them, but she finds it hard to believe that they really want her to be their leader.

At her side, Bellamy stands up and a hush falls over the Hall as they wait for him to speak.

“People of Arkadia,” he takes a breath and shares a look with Clarke, “Back on the Ark we used to celebrate Unity Day. We celebrated the moment where twelve very different stations chose to put aside their differences and come together. That lesson of working hard together in order to overcome any obstacle was taught to us since we were children. It’s part of what makes us who we are. Here on Earth we will remember the lessons our predecessors taught us, and today we celebrate a new day of unity. The day we chose to work together. The day we chose peace.”

A roar of excited approval erupts around the room. Bellamy waits a moment for it to die down before continuing.

“I count myself very lucky to be alive today and to be standing in front of you here. We will not forget all those who were not so lucky. All those who believed that this peace was possible and gave their lives so we can be here today. We’ve all known great loss, but we will not allow those deaths to be in vain. We will remember them and we will honor their sacrifice every time we choose love, and life, and peace.”

A chorus of “we will remember”, solemn and loving, echoes around the room. Bellamy takes another breath and lifts his cup into the air.

“So let us take a moment, before we enjoy this incredible feast, to remember those who are no longer with us.” A dutiful silence falls over the assembled crowd.

It’s painful to remember everyone they’ve lost, but Clarke can’t help but see them all vividly before her in her mind. Finn and Wells should both be here - they were the first and biggest champions of peace over conflict. Charlotte, Fox, Sterling, and Monroe. Monroe’s absence especially feels wrong. Clarke had heard of her death, but it hadn’t really sunk in. Even now, she half expects Monroe to walk through that door. She thinks of Maya, and all the innocent lives lost inside the Mountain. She thinks of Anya, who believed in working together and whose life was so brutally cut short. She thinks of those culled on the Ark for air, those who died in the Exodus ship explosion, those who didn’t survive the crash to Earth, and all those they’ve lost since landing here. There are 41 members of the original hundred left, and 423 left from the thousands who once made up the population of the Ark. It’s a lot of death to remember. Bellamy’s voice breaks the silence and pulls her back out of her thoughts.

“They died so that we could live, so now let’s live for them and CELEBRATE!”

Cheers erupt from the crowd as they all drink deeply from their cups and start to help themselves to the plates of food filling the tables in front of them.

Clarke leans over as Bellamy sits back down next to her. “Good speech.”

“Thanks. I was pretty nervous.”

“Well, I couldn’t tell.” She could, actually, but she’s sure no one else would have. Clarke smiles. “Can you believe this is all really happening?”

“Not at all.” He shakes his head a little in disbelief. “But I’m glad you’re here.” 

“I’m glad I’m here too.”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

“Good,” Bellamy grins. Then he raises his glass towards Clarke in a toast. “Chancellor.” 

Clarke raises her glass to meet his. “Chancellor.”

The delicate clink of their glasses is lost in the noise of the hall.

 

\--

 

The feast is a loud and raucous affair. Down the table, Clarke watches her friends all talk animatedly over top of one another as they enjoy the large bowls of hearty soup in front of them. Jasper and Raven look as though they’re challenging each other to an arm wrestling match, grinning and red-cheeked. Harper, watching them warily, makes a point of clearing their cups out of the way. Meanwhile, a few seats down, Tolk is holding court with half a dozen Arkers, gesturing wildly with his hands as he tells his story. The look of bemused delight on Bryan’s face makes Clarke grin. Monty interjects something into the story, which makes them all laugh. Miller, beside him, ruffles his hair in response, before affectionately pulling him over and kissing the top of his head. 

Clarke suddenly realizes that she may have missed something here. 

She turns to Bellamy, who is also watching their friends. “What’s going on with Miller and Monty?”

“Oh, well, you know Monty is Miller’s match.”

Shock registers on Clarke’s face. “I did  _ not  _ know that. It’s one-sided?”

“Yeah, but it looks like they’ve finally figured it out. About time if you ask me.”

Clarke looks back at her friends and it occurs to her how much she has missed. How much they have all grown. She can’t wait to get to know them all over again.

Octavia and Lincoln’s presence is missed. After a while Clarke ventures, “I’m sorry Octavia’s not here.”

“Me too,” Bellamy replies simply. “But it’s her life and I want her to be free to go and do whatever she wants. She knows she’ll always have a home here, and I know we’ll meet again.”

Clarke nods, surprised and reassured to find Bellamy so at peace with his sister’s absence.  

Before she can respond, Kane approaches and Bellamy stands to greet him.

“Congratulations to you both.” Kane extends a hand and Bellamy takes it gratefully. Clarke rises from her chair as well and hugs Kane when he turns to her.

“Thank you. For everything.” Clarke says sincerely.

“We are all lucky to have you both. If you ever need anything, I’m at your service.”

Bellamy looks sideways to Clarke and the two share the same thought.

“Actually, as it happens,” Clarke starts, “we’ve been talking about it and there is something you can do for all of us.”

“Name it.”

“Now that we are the thirteenth Clan, we’ll need to send an ambassador to reside in Polis on our behalf. We wondered if you would consider taking up the position?”

“I-” Kane stutters, clearly caught off guard. After a moment a smile blooms on his face, colour flooding his cheeks. “I would be honored.”

“Then it’s agreed.” Bellamy grins, handing Kane a fresh cup as they all share in drink.

Kane only takes a couple of sips before placing his cup back down. He leans over to Clarke. “Can I have a word?”

“Of course.” She sets down her own drink and rises from the table. Bellamy watches them go, concern in his eyes. Clarke gives him a relaxed smile in return, indicating that he should carry on with the feast, as she follows Kane a few steps away from the main table to one side of the room.

“It’s about your mother,” Kane says without preamble.

“What about her?”

“Have you seen her since you got back?”

Clarke shuffles her feet awkwardly, regret and guilt sinking through her. She hasn’t. She was furious when she heard Harper’s report of how Pike, Hannah, and Gillmer escaped. In wanting to avoid fighting with her mom, she decided to avoid her altogether. It wasn’t hard; her mother was clearly avoiding her too.

“She’s not doing well, Clarke. After she recovered from the drug all she wanted to do was work, but then after Pike’s escape she... she took it really hard. She’s been off, and I don’t know how to help her. I saw her slip out past Raven’s gate just now. She’s still within range, so she can’t have gone far, but I’m worried about her.”

“Okay,” Clarke agrees. She knew she would need to speak to her mom eventually. Now’s as good a time as any. “I’ll go.”

She catches Bellamy’s eye as she move towards the exit of the Mess Hall and signals to him in response to his quizzical look.  _ Everything’s fine. _

It’s much quieter outside as she makes her way towards the edge of camp. Sure enough, Clarke can see skid marks in the mud around Raven’s gate - someone’s definitely been here recently. She slips easily past the gate, and walks out into the valley. She’s not sure where her mom would have gone, but she walks straight out for a while, keeping her eyes peeled for signs of movement. She’s just starting to think that she should have asked Kane to come with her, when she spots a figure under the shadow of a large tree, a few feet ahead.  

“Mom?” Clarke squints. 

Abby is sitting on top of a pile of freshly turned earth, as though she’s been digging. She doesn’t look up when Clarke calls, her attention fixed on her hands, turning something over in them. Clarke can’t quite make out what it is… until suddenly, it clicks. Clarke’s blood turns cold.

“MOM! What the  _ hell  _ are you doing?” 

Clarke eats up the ground between them, sick with fear. She’s not sure what she thought she had been avoiding these last two days since returning, but she definitely didn’t expect this. 

Abby finally looks up as Clarke arrives under the shadow of the tree. She closes her palm around the vial of powder. “Clarke,” she says stiffly, “what are you doing here?”

“What?” Clarke can barely keep from screaming, “what am  _ I  _ doing here? What the hell do you think  _ you’re _ doing here?” She gestures expansively at the hole in the ground, at the piles of dirt around them, at the dozens and dozens of vials at the bottom of the hole. “How did you even find this?”

Abby shrugs, her gaze returning to the vial in her palm. “I asked Jasper where he buried it. He told me without even thinking about it, I supposed he assumed it was for medical purposes.”

Clarke still feels sick, but she forces herself to sit down beside her mother, to try and keep her voice as calm as possible. “Mom, why are you doing this?”

When Abby looks up, there are tears glistening in her eyes. “Because…” he voice cracks. “I miss it so much. Under the drug, we were finally all safe, we were together. In that world, I hadn’t failed you, I hadn’t let you down  _ so many times-” _

“You haven’t let me down.” Clarke knows it for a lie even as she says it.  

From the look on Abby’s face, she knows it too. “You’re so strong, and smart, and capable. You had to be, because over and over again I failed to protect you.”

“Mom-”

“No Clarke.” Her mother says, suddenly forceful. “I can’t help you, I’ve never been able to help or protect you, all I’ve ever done is let you down and put you in danger.”

“That’s not true,” Clarke protests.

“Oh really? I couldn’t protect you from getting thrown in the Sky Box, or getting sent down here to Earth. I couldn’t save you from having blood on your hands, and I couldn’t offer you what you needed to stay here and deal with that guilt so instead you had to run away and put yourself into even more danger. I couldn’t stop your match from breaking or keep all of your friends here alive. I wasn’t able to stop Jaha and Alie from releasing their drug and instead fell victim to it. I trusted Hannah when I shouldn’t have. I have been a terrible mother to you. At least, in the City of Light, I can pretend.”

“Fuck that,” Clarke snaps, her surge of anger overwhelming her instinct not to swear around her mother. “You want to help me? You stay here and  _ help me.”  _

“You don’t need my help.”

“What are you talking about? Of course I do! Mom, you may not have been able to stop any of those things from happening, but if it wasn’t for you I never you have survived any of that.”

Abby looks up and her, skeptical.

“You are the one who taught me how to be strong, who showed me what it was to be a leader. I have survived this long because of you. And now I’m Chancellor, and Mom I’m terrified. There is so much to do and so much at stake, and I need you if I’m going to be able to do this.”

“You’re going to be an amazing Chancellor.” Abby says simply.

“If I am, it will be because you showed me how.”

The two share a small smile.

Gently, Clarke reaches over and takes the vial from Abby’s hand, throwing it back into the hole. “It’s a drug, Mom. It’s enticing and it’s addictive. You know better than anyone the kind of effect an addictive substance can have. But that doesn’t mean you should give into it. We can fight it.”

Abby gives a shaky nod of understanding.

“Besides your work here is far from over. As Arkadia’s foremost Doctor, I’m going to need you.” Clarke pauses. “There’s a feast going on at the Mess. Do you want to come with me?”

“What about all this?” Abby looks down at the hole. 

“I’ll have Jasper move it. We’ll need to find a more permanent solution, of course. Monty thinks he may be able to chemically neutralize it, but it’ll take a bit of time. We’ll deal with that later. Right now, please come and join me at the feast, the soup is delicious, I promise you’ll love it.”

“Okay.” Abby agrees as she accepts Clarke’s extended hand to help her up to her feet. 

 

\--

 

Music has started up in the hall by the time Clarke returns with her mother to the feast. A dance floor has started in the centre of the room and cheers of wild excitement explode around the room.

Kane and Bellamy both move to greet them. Kane arrives first and beaming at the sight of Abby, leads her away towards a spot at the table and a fresh bowl of soup.

Clarke hangs back a little, watching the festivities from the side of the room. Bellamy comes to stand by her side.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so.”

On the spontaneous dance floor, Clarke can see Harper and Jasper having a dance off, each one upping the other with a series of ridiculous, over the top moves. Around them their friends howl with laughter, encouraging them. No doubt they will face plenty more dark times ahead, but in the meantime, it’s nice to know they can all still laugh.

The radio on Bellamy’s belt crackles to life and he answers it. “Go ahead”

_ “Someone at the gate. A rover. One of ours.”  _

“A rover?” Clarke questions, sharing Bellamy’s concerned look.

“Are any of our rovers signed out right now, Douglas?” Bellamy asks through the radio.

_ “No sir.” _

“Hold your position, we’re on our way.”

Bellamy leads the way out of the Hall and Clarke follows in step with him to the main gate.

Looking through the fence they can see it, it’s beat up and looks like it’s on its last legs, but it’s definitely one of their rovers. As they watch, out of it emerge two very recognizable figures.

“OPEN THE GATE.” Clarke calls to the guard by the panel.

They stagger a little as they walk through, but Clarke can’t help but beam in astonishment at the sight of them.

“WICK!” Raven exclaims, clearly having followed them out of the Hall to see what was going on. “SINCLAIR!” She races past both Clarke and Bellamy, and doesn’t stop until she has thrown her arms around Wick’s neck pulling him into a mighty hug.

Wick looks stunned and a little off balance, clearly surprised by this welcome. However he quickly recovers from his shock, gratefully wrapping his arms around Raven and melting for a moment into her embrace. 

“Where have you been?” Bellamy asks as Raven releases Wick and hugs Sinclair as well.

“It’s a long story,” Sinclair answers over Raven’s shoulder. “We discovered something and I’m afraid we have some desperate and dangerous news.”

“We need to speak to the Chancellor. Like, now.”

“You are.”  

“Bellamy and I have been voted in as co-Chancellors,” Clarke supplies.

Sinclair and Wick look to them both in surprise.

“Come with us,” Bellamy offers. “We’re currently having a feast and it looks like you could both use some food. We’ll tell you our story and listen to yours. Whatever problem you’ve found, we’ll handle it.”

They move back to the main hall as a group and while a new sense of foreboding has taken up residence in Clarke’s stomach, she knows in her heart that they will face and survive this together. Whatever it is, they can handle it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it - this is the last full chapter, gang!
> 
> Though we do have a two-part epilogue coming next, so you've not quite heard the last from us...


	30. Epilogue: Five Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue is a companion piece to the epilogue of "The World is Brighter Than the Sun Now That You're Here" which was from Clarke's POV, now here's that same day from Bellamy's POV...

**Bellamy, Earth-date: October 15th 2154**

 

Bellamy catches a glimpse of it out of the window first. The grand silhouette of Arkadia glints in the early morning sun, filling Bellamy with a rush of joy. After two full days of traveling and months away, it feels good to be coming home. Good, and maybe a little nerve-wracking. 

Just before Bellamy left for the trade negotiation in the Rock Line Clan, he and Clarke had… a pretty messy time of it. They made an escalating series of terrible choices and thoughtless comments, culminating in a fight so brutal that Bellamy still can’t even think about it without feeling a sick punch of regret in his stomach. He draws comfort, though, from the vivid green grass blurring past under the rover tires, and the warm yellow sunlight casting shadows across the crystal-blue Ark. Colours spark, bright and alive, a welcome change after so long away. Still, it’s a testament to his bond with Clarke that, even in the face of their fight and the distance he traveled, his vision had never completely gone. The colours had been faded and much lighter, but they had still been there. He had found great strength in that, as he always did, that Clarke was there with him in everything he saw. 

And he’d seen a lot. The Rock Line Clan was beautiful, vast and rich. The people were welcoming, eager to learn and offer their goods in exchange. Their King was stiff maybe, a little wary, but by the end of the stay Bellamy thinks he might have managed to make himself a friend in the Rock Line Clan. It was, all in all, a successful, incredible trip. Even so, coming over the cresting hill towards Arkadia’s gate feels like taking off his shoes after a long day of walking. 

Raven, beside him in the driver’s seat, guns through the clearing that surrounds Arkadia, maneuvering the car up to the front gate.

“Wakie wakie back there Miller,” she chirps, “we’re here.”  

Craning his neck, Bellamy twists around to face where Miller is sprawled out on the bench in the back. One arm is splayed over his head, the other thrown over the side of the bench. 

“I’m awake,” Miller retorts sluggishly, hauling himself into a sitting position. The grogginess of his voice gives away how recently he was asleep.  

Raven smirks at him, then reaches for the rover’s radio. She catches it in one hand, adjusting a dial with the other.

“Hey there Main Gate,” she smiles into the radio. “This is Rover One, and we’d very much like to come inside if you could be a doll and open up please.” 

_ “Welcome home Rover One, Good to have you back.”  _

“Thanks, Sinclair.” Raven’s smile grows as the heavy metal gates in front of them spring to life. 

Despite the early hour, a welcome party has already assembled in the main courtyard. Raven inches carefully through the gate before cutting the engine.

Wick’s beaming face is the first to greet them, appearing instantly in the driver’s side window. He flings open the door and scoops a laughing Raven out of the rover and into his arms, pressing kisses to any part of her face her can reach.

An excited Monty follows on Wick’s heels, emerging from the crowd and bolting directly to the back of the Rover. Miller’s barely gets his feet on the ground before Monty’s throwing his arms around his neck and pulling him into long kiss. 

Bellamy moves off to the side, feeling awkward and left out. He knew before he’d even stepped out of the rover that Clarke wasn’t in the crowd, but the weight of rejection in his chest is still stronger than he was prepared for. All he wants in the world is to see her, to speak with her, to be with her. He entertains the idea of seeking her out, but-

“About damn time you showed up!”

Bellamy whips around at the sound of her familiar voice.

“Octavia!” A grin breaks across his face at the sight of her, waddling towards him. “Holy crap, you’re huge!”

“Don’t test me, Bellamy.” She glares at him. “You’re lucky you made it back in time. If you’d missed the birth, my poor child would have grown up without an uncle, on account of how I would have  _ murdered you.”  _

“It’s good to see you too.” His smile is huge and goofy as he sweeps her into a hug, more gentle than he might have been if she weren’t eight months pregnant. 

He releases her, stepping back again. The corners of Octavia’s mouth are twitching as she plainly tries and fails to cover her own smile.

“Hey, I got you something.” Bellamy reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Well, sort of for you. Mostly for the baby.” He pulls out a finely crafted knife, wrapped in a leather sheath, and hands it gingerly out to her. It’s one of the many gifts and goods they received from the Rock Line Clan, but it struck Bellamy as particularly beautiful. 

He watches Octavia’s eyes go wide as she withdraws the knife and inspects the intricate carvings all along the handle and blade.  

“Hold up,” Harper pipes up, arriving at Octavia’s elbow, “did you just give a knife as a baby shower present?” She frowns at Bellamy.

“Well, I mean,” he splutters, drawing a hand across the back of his neck. “I know you can’t obviously give a knife to a baby, but I figured you know, when they’re old enough-” 

“I love it,” Octavia interrupts, her eyes bright, “thank you Bell.” She pulls Bellamy back into a much tighter hug. 

“Of course you do.” Harper sighs theatrically, looking around as though trying to find someone else to agree with her disapproval. Finding no one, Harper just shrugs, smiling wryly as turns back to Bellamy. “So, how did everything go with the Rock Line?”

“Good, I think. Their King was a little slow to come around, but we got there in the end.”

“Was cutting your hair off part of the wooing process?” Octavia asks. Her voice is teasing, but there’s a bit too much of a knowing look in her eye. She’s closer to the mark than he’d like to admit. 

Actually, she’s pretty much right. It’s custom to keep hair short up in the Cliffs, and after a few weeks of living through dust storms, Bellamy began to understand why. Dust kept getting matted into his hair and the King ridiculed him about it constantly. So Bellamy decided he might as well give it a shot. He still feels self-conscious about his new hair, running a hand nervously over the close cut. He keeps expecting to feel his fingers catch on a tangle of curls, still expects to feel the weight of it across his temples and against the back of his neck. He feels exposed without it, strangely  _ visible _ and he isn’t sure he wants everyone to know why he had to get rid of it.

“It just seemed easier like this,” He mutters dismissively. “Anyway, the trip was a success. At first they were a little wary of us, but they saw the value in what we had to teach them and they were incredibly generous with what they supplied us in return. No one forges steel like the Rock Line Clan. The back of the rover is full of tools that’ll be invaluable to us in the coming years.” 

“What kind of tools?” Octavia’s eyes light up. It’s clear from her expression that she hopes ‘tools’ in this context means ‘fancy new weapons.’ 

Bellamy rolls his eyes and indicates off to the rover. “Go take a look. Better get there quick, before Miller pockets all his favourites.”

Octavia doesn’t need telling twice. With barely more than a parting nod to Bellamy she marches off to inspect the Rock Line’s gifts.  

Harper, however, stays put in by Bellamy’s side. “You don’t want to go check out the new toys?” he asks, nudging her gently with his elbow.

Harper scoffs gently. “I’ll make do. No one in their right mind would try to get between a hormonal Octavia and some new steel.”

Bellamy laughs. “Probably some wisdom there. So, come on then, catch me up. How have things been back here?” 

Even as Harper reports back on the state in camp, Bellamy feels his attention pulled insistently back to Clarke’s absence. He’s not able to resist scanning the main yard. Judging by the sharpening of colour to his left, he would hazard a guess that Clarke is in medical right now. Working, he’s sure, not injured. He feels certain he would know if she were injured. He’s desperate to go see her, he feels the pull of their link like an urgent tugging under his breastbone, but he resists it. Clarke has work to do, and If she can’t leave it to come meet him, then, well, he’ll just have to deal. Besides, he has works of his own to attend to.

“Bellamy?” Harper’s frowning at him, her hands resting on her hips in plain irritation.

“Sorry, what?”

“Have you heard a single thing I’ve said?” 

“Yes!” Bellamy insists, even as he flushes in embarrassment. “Wick fixed the dishwashers.”

Harper rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Yes, that too. But I  _ also _ said ‘you know the Harvest Festival is tonight, right?’” She pauses for effect. “So, you know the Harvest Festival is tonight, right?” Bellamy catches the quiver of anxiety in her voice. 

“Oh! Yeah, I know. That’s why we made sure to arrive back this morning.”

“And you know we’re  _ hosting _ it right?” The sharp patronizing edge in her voice would be insulting, except that Bellamy thinks it might be justified. “There are a million things to organize, and set up, and approve, and keep from catching on fire. And guests will literally be arriving in a matter of hours.”  

“I- I know.” Though in truth Bellamy hasn’t really thought about it that much. Chagrined, Bellamy swallows. “Okay, I’m sorry we didn’t arrive back sooner. But I’m here now and at your service. What do we need to do?” 

“I need you to help approve and assign all the extra guard shifts,” Harper drops into business, as though she’d been waiting this whole time for him to get to the point. “We’re going to have dignitaries from eight of the twelve clans here tonight, and we need to make sure they are safe and protected. But at the same time, it can’t look like we’re putting on extra guards because we’re suspicious of them, or we consider them a threat.” 

“Okay, yeah, I see your point. Alright, we’ll figure it out. Lead the way.” 

Harper smiles and leads him gratefully across the yard. As they pass through camp, various people call out to Bellamy, welcoming him back, waving and smiling. Bellamy waves back, smiling at the host of familiar faces. 

“I’ve got everything laid out in here,” Harper says, ushering him into the main guard house.

Inside, a dozen pages have been splayed out on the tables. There are menus, and lists of gifts, and seating plans. Rosters, and guest lists, and itineraries. Bellamy’s head spins with the amount of planning that must have gone into this and feels a twist of guilt for having been away so long.

Bellamy picks up one of the guest lists, lying close to hand. “Hey, is Roan coming tonight?” 

“No, he sends his regrets, but he couldn’t get away. Echo should be arriving soon, though.” 

“Oh good! She still owes me five silver pieces from the last time we played at cards. Are Bryan and Tolk coming too?” 

“They’re already here,” Harper nods, digging through a mess of papers on the desk. “They’ve been here all week, actually. Tolk’s been a huge help in getting us setup for the feast tonight. He says no other Clan  _ truly appreciates fine food like the Pouduk _ ,” she pauses in her search of the desk to adopt a cheap facsimile of his accent. “So we have to take note and  _ try not to pick up all the bad eating habits of the Trikru _ .” Harper shrugs off her impersonation, smiling at the memory. “Anyway, then him and Lincoln and Monty got into this whole big thing comparing family recipes on how to properly cook potatoes. It was twice as boring as it sounds, but the upshot is that there will be three different types of potatoes on offer tonight, and no shortage of other food either. Here we go!” She exclaims, flourishing a handful of papers in one hand. She lays them out, pushing various other papers out of the way to make space.

Harper hadn’t been exaggerating when she said the guard chart was complicated for the next few days. She had already figured most of it out, but it still took them several hours to go through. Finally, they decided on a couple extra armed and uniformed guards on each shift and a couple extra guard who are armed, but not in uniform, so they can easily patrol the crowds without drawing extra attention. When they were finished, Harper prepared to go brief her guards. 

“Hey, Harper, you’re an excellent Captain of the Guards, you know. You could have easily done this and then showed it to Clarke for approval, you didn’t need to wait for me.” 

“I know,” Harper smiles hesitantly, “I tried to get her approval on it a few days ago, but there’s been so much prep to do and she’s been kinda stressed. She, uh, she just snapped and told me that she wouldn’t do it. Said it was your job and you’d deal with it when you got back.” 

“Ah.” Another wave of guilt hits him. Yeah, he definitely should have been back sooner. “Hey, I’m sorry-”

Bellamy’s cut short as the door to the office swings open and Kane strides inside.  

“I heard you were here,” Kane grins, reaching out to shake Bellamy’s hand warmly. “Good to have you back, Bellamy.”  

“Thank you, Marcus, it’s good to be back.” 

“Miller just showed me what you brought back. Looks like it was an excellent trip.” 

“I was very pleased, yes.”  

“And now onto the Festival! I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of sending some fresh warm water to your quarters for you. I figured you’d want to bathe before you welcomed the Clan dignitaries.”  

Bellamy nearly laughs out loud at this. Having a bath could not have been farther down on his list of priorities right now. All he’s wanted to do for hours is find and talk with Clarke. The longer he’s here and doesn’t see her, the worse he feels. Except he has no way of refusing Kane’s offer. And hell, he knows he must smell. Plus yeah, he probably should be presentable to greet everyone later.

So, left with no other option, Bellamy nods to Kane. “Thank you, that’s very kind.” He makes his excuses to Harper and heads off to his quarters. It’s the opposite side of camp to the Medical Bay, and he can’t help noticing even the most minute drop in his vision. 

 

\--  

 

By the time he’s finished bathing, shaving, and changing into the clean clothes someone had thought to leave out for him, the sun is high in the sky. Refusing to be distracted any further, Bellamy cuts directly towards the Medical Centre. By the looks of it Clarke’s still working, but he can’t wait any more. 

He’s just about to go storming into the Medical Bay, when he pulls up short. He can hear people inside, Clarke’s familiar voice, speaking to someone in a low, serious tone. It doesn’t take him long to figure out that the person she’s talking to is his sister. He hesitates at the door for a moment. It doesn’t feel right to interrupt them, so instead he sits down on a nearby rock. Bright golden sunlight beats down on him as he waits.

After a little while, she emerges. The world burns like a struck match, and oh it is  _ really _ good to see her again. At the sight of her, his breath catches in his throat. Her hair is done up in a braid encircling her head like a crown. He’s never seen her wear her hair like that before.  

“What did you do to your hair?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“Take it up with your Grounder of a sister,” Clarke snaps, defensively running a hand across the tight row of braiding across her temple. “She thought it would be fitting for the ceremony. And besides, you’re one to talk.”

Immediately regretting his initial comment, he runs his hand through his buzzed hair, suddenly self-conscious himself. He decides to move on.  

“Come on, your mom and the other council members are chomping at the bit. We’ve got a Grounder party to get to.” The two of them set off along the familiar paths that connect the various buildings within Arkadia.

“It’s not a party,” Clarke huffs. “It’s an ancient ritual. We still have to be on our guard.”

This seems a bit rich, seeing as he’s the one who just spent the morning going over every aspect of their guard detail. Instead of bringing that up, he gives her a teasing look. “Shame, here I was looking forward to getting trashed with Indra and dancing on the feast table.”

“You’re hilarious,” Clarke deadpans, fiddling with the Chancellor pin on her jacket, and looking over at the matching one pinned to Bellamy’s. “Remind me again why I let you talk me into being co-Chancellor? I should have just left you to it.”

“Hey, I didn’t talk you into anything.  _ We _ were elected. You want to blame someone? Blame the people dumb enough to vote for us losers.”

“I blame them too,” Clarke assures him, sparing him a smile.

It feels so good to be here with her again. Watching her smile at him. For a moment he can’t understand why he ever went away in the first place. How could he ever want to be anywhere but here? And yet, the first thing he did on seeing her was insult her hair. He scolds himself and gathers the inward strength to try again.   

“It looks good.” Bellamy is acutely aware of how loud and awkward his voice suddenly sounds. “That’s, uh, what I meant to say.”

Clarke blinks at him, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

“Your hair.”  _ Dammit how is he so bad at this?  _ “It looks good like that.”

“Oh,” Clarke blinks again, her cheeks reddening. “Thanks, Bellamy.” She raises her hand again to smooth her fingers over the ridges of the new braids. “Yours does too,” she adds as an afterthought.

He should - and probably will - tell Clarke the whole story of his run-in with the Rock Line King, and how his hair paid the price for it. But now doesn’t really feel like the time, so he dismisses it, explaining only that “it was just easier when up in the mountains.”

Shaking her head a little, Clarke strides on ahead of them. And now, as an all-too familiar ache takes up residence in his heart, Bellamy remembers again why he went away. Because being with her, being this close to her without actually being able to be with her, is constant torture. He loves her more than anything in this world and he knows that she loves him too. He  _ knows  _ it. And yet she insists, even after all these years, and after everything they’ve been through, on always keeping him at arm’s length.  

Bellamy watches her as she walks. Something is clearly bothering her. “You okay?” he asks, desperate as always for her to just let him in. 

“I’m fine,” she replies quickly. “Come on. We’ve got an ancient harvest ceremony to prepare for.” Her rebuke unsurprising but painful all the same. 

Bellamy lets out a sigh and follows along behind her. He doesn’t try again. 

 

\--

 

Wincing, Bellamy rolls out his shoulder, poking at the tender flesh at the nape of his neck. Oh yeah, that’s definitely going to bruise. 

He’s too old for this crap (or, maybe, just not a good enough fighter for this crap), Next year, he’s going to make Harper fight in the Ceremonial Battle of the Seconds. Being co-Chancellor gives him the right to delegate. 

“You’re going to want to get some ice on that.” Lincoln eyes him up as he saunters towards him from out of the shadows. 

Over Lincoln’s shoulder, Bellamy can see the crowds of people lining up or casually pushing their way into the Mess Hall for the Harvest feast. The Ceremonial portion of the evening complete, now it’s time to eat. Bellamy knows he should join them, but the grass out here is so comfortable, and he’s really not sure he’s going to be able to get up for a while, after what that Broadleaf warrior did to him. 

Bellamy lets out a low groan as he tries to stand. “Ugh, Echo promised it was a  _ ceremonial  _ fight.”

Lincoln shrugs, his expression impassive. “It was. Doesn’t mean you can’t still get your ass handed to you.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy mutters darkly, “thanks for that.” 

“Come on.” Lincoln takes pity on him and helps lift him to his feet. “we can get ice around back by the kitchens.”  

They make their way in the opposite direction to the rest of the crowd, passing along the outside of the Mess. Bellamy’s legs are stiff and awkward, but he can at least move under his own steam. All things considered, he’s counting that as a win. 

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Lincoln says as they walk, “we finished the house.” 

“Already? Wow!” Lincoln’s been talking for a while about building a house for him and Octavia, but Bellamy had no idea it would be finished so soon. “That’s great news, Lincoln. Congratulations.” 

Lincoln’s smile is warm and satisfied. “It’s everything we wanted it to be, and right on the border between between Arkadia and Trikru. We’re planning to move by the end of the week. We want to be settled, before the baby comes.” 

_ So soon _ . Bellamy takes a breath. “I won’t pretend it hasn’t been nice having you guys back in Arkadia for the past little while. I’ll be sorry to see you go.”

Bellamy can’t quite read the expression that flits across Lincoln’s face. “We’ve been here nearly a year, Bellamy. You’re the one that went away this time.”

“Well, you know, things to do, Kings to win over…” Bellamy fights for a smile.

Lincoln hums, clearly unconvinced. 

Bellamy couldn’t say why, but he feels a suddenly overwhelming need to explain himself. “These trade negotiations are delicate things, Lincoln. You of all people must appreciate that.” 

“What I appreciate,” Lincoln counters firmly, “is a pair of Chancellors who work together as they should. Matched pairs make the best leaders, but only if they  _ communicate.”  _

“Hey, we communicate!” Bellamy’s protest feels weak and childish, even to his own ears. Mostly because he knows it’s a lie. 

It’s not that he and Clarke are lying to each other - and it’s certainly nothing like that horrible period, years ago now, when their match had broken. They’re still a team, they still have each others’ backs, but… but Lincoln’s right. They don’t  _ talk. _ In a lot of ways, they never have. At least, not about the most important thing. 

Lincoln doesn’t seem inclined to continue arguing the point. He falls silent, while Bellamy tries to think of how to change the subject. He’s still trying to think of something to say when they arrive at the ice buckets around the back of the kitchens. 

“Here,” Lincoln scoops out a handful of ice chips and and wraps them in an old rag before handing them to Bellamy. 

Bellamy mutters a thanks, accepting the ice and pressing it to his damaged shoulder. 

“We’ll have to have you out to the house once we have moved in,” Lincoln picks up the conversation as though nothing had happened, “a new house is not a home until Clan members have shared a meal inside it.”

“I’d like that,” Bellamy tells him earnestly. 

A warm silence passes between them.

“You know,” Bellamy continues thoughtfully, “going out to live in the borderlands is all well and good, but you know if Octavia doesn’t come back to Medical for the birth Clarke and Abby will both make you regret it. I don’t know if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of  _ two  _ Griffins-worth of disapproval, but it’s not a fate I’d wish on anyone.”

Lincoln chuckles. “Noted.”

“And anyway, once the kid’s born… you’ll want to come visit...” 

“Constantly.”

“You promise?” Bellamy asks.

“Once the little  _ gona _ starts teething, you’ll struggle to get rid of us,” His old friend smiles, clasping Bellamy on his good shoulder. “Now come on. Let’s get to this feast before all the roasted potatoes are gone. That’s the only real way to cook a potato, you know.”       

 

\--

 

The feast is some of the best food Bellamy’s ever eaten. And while he does very much enjoy the roasted potatoes, the whipped, and the delicately herbed boiled potatoes are also delicious. He’s not sure he’s going to be able to weigh in on the lively, spirited, and surprisingly passionate debate on the topic. 

After the feast is over and the sun has set, Bellamy finds himself sitting around a fire. Moonlight illuminates the yard, casting the revelries in long, flowing shadows. In the square, delegates from all the Clans have taken up a call to music. The Delphi Clan, who all brought instruments as their Harvest Gift, strike up a pulsing, driving melody that move the hairs on the back of Bellamy’s neck and inspire the crowds to dance. 

Around the fire, Bellamy listens to Jasper talk animatedly with Tolk and one of Tolk’s sisters. He’s shouting over the music, his arms gesturing wildly as he explains to them about the new strain of wheat he developed for year-round farming. Bellamy’s sure it’s very interesting - Jasper certainly seems to think so - but if he’s honest, Bellamy’s finding it hard to focus on anything he’s saying. He can’t help it, his thoughts keep drifting back to Clarke. He’s spent a lot of the evening near her, or beside her, or across from her, as they perform their joint duties to host this festival, but he still hasn’t had the chance to really talk to her.  

His gaze drifts, like a compass needle to true north, back across the yard. She’s sitting at another fire pit on the other side of camp. Her hair is golden in the firelight, her cheeks flushed pink, the line of her jaw sharp in profile, and Bellamy can’t look away. She’s been speaking with Abby for a while, their heads bent close together. As he watches, Clarke stands and moves away from the fire, disappearing into the crowd. Maybe she’s gone to get another drink. Bellamy looks down at his own empty cup and thinks that’s not a bad idea. 

He makes his excuse to Tolk and Jasper as he rises, but neither show any sign of hearing him. Tolk apparently still needs some convincing. “Have you ever  _ tried  _ frozen wheat, Jasper? I cannot recommend it.”

His booming voice fades quickly, swallowed up in the noise and the music, as Bellamy moves away from the fire.

Clarke is nowhere to be found when Bellamy arrives at the still, but he is greeted by a friendly face.

“Step up! Step up! Best mead this side of the Plains!” 

“Murphy!” Bellamy grins. “Glad to see we’re serving the good stuff here. Do you have more of that sweet ginger liquor you had with you last time you were here?” 

“Sold out, man. But I can offer you some of this,” he plucks Bellamy’s cup from his hand and fills it with something from a large oaken barrel. “It’s a new recipe we’ve been working on and it is currently taking Polis by storm.”

Murphy holds out Bellamy’s drink. “I just gave your wifey a cup of this and she was impressed - if I do say so myself.” 

Bellamy accepts the cup, but can’t let Murphy’s nickname go. “Murphy come on, you can’t call her that. I mean not only is it disrespectful considering she’s your Chancellor-” 

“Not my Chancellor,” Murphy interrupts in a blithely sing-song voice, “I’m a citizen of Polis!”

“Fine,” Bellamy rolls his eyes, “but she’s definitely not my - I mean we’re not even-” he stutters to a stop, regretting saying anything at all. 

“Wait, hold up,” Murphy’s grin falls. “Are you guys still not actually together?” 

Bellamy is taken aback by the sudden seriousness in Murphy’s voice. “Er, no.”

“You’re one of the most famous match pairs in the Thirteen Clans, if not the  _ most _ famous! The stories I’ve heard told around the market about the two of you are epic. Everyone loves your story. I mean, most of it I don’t believe, like that one about the bear is ridiculous-”     

“Well, there were plenty of fish in the water at the time…”

**“** Wait, that was  _ true?”  _ Murphy blinks comically. “A bear just let you go because you asked nicely?!” 

“There was a little more to it than that.” 

“Whatever. Point being, you guys are like the most disgustingly in love people I’ve ever seen in my life. Fucking songs,  _ actual goddamn folk songs,  _ have been written about the two of you. Are you seriously telling me that you two have  _ never-”  _

Bellamy grows instantly uncomfortable, and Murphy, because he’s an asshole, reads his expression correctly. 

“Oh! Okay, so you  _ have _ had sex then!” 

“Murphy! Will you kindly  _ shut up.” _

“What’s the problem? Was the sex not good? You both exude so much sexual chemistry, most of the time it’s uncomfortable just being in the same room with the two of you. I can’t imagine that the sex was not good-”

_ “Please _ stop imagining us having sex.” Bellamy would genuinely rather go shove his head in one of those bonfires than keep having this conversation.

“Alright alright, I’m sorry,” Murphy continues, suddenly serious again. “I don’t know what’s stopping you two from working it out, but I am really sorry to hear that. Because you two have loved each other for as long as I’ve known you, and if anyone deserves to be having really amazing sex on the regular, it’s you two.” 

The sincerity in Murphy’s voice makes it hard for Bellamy to object, so instead he smiles awkwardly “Uh, thanks Murphy…” 

“Anytime, man.”

When he returns to the fires, Bellamy still can’t catch a glimpse of Clarke. The evening light and flickering shadows makes it hard to pinpoint her by colour alone, but he’s sure she can’t be too far away. He’s considering trying to track her down, but then he spies Octavia, stretched out alone next to a small fire. He makes his way over to her instead. 

“Hey. Can I sit?”

She smiles lazily up at him. “Of course. Just don’t ask me to move over, or to stand up, or to do anything really, because I am a whale and I just got comfortable here.” 

“Seems fair,” he agrees, slumping down beside her. “How’s the pregnancy going? Any weird cravings? Mom used to ask me to sneak pickles out of the Mess when she was pregnant.” 

“Really? And you would get them for her?” 

“Sure. I stole lots of food from the Mess in those days. She had told everyone that she had this horrible flu, so she could stay hidden in her quarters for the last three months of her pregnancy. So then I had to try and get enough food on my ration card for her to eat as well.”

“Then you did the same thing for me.” It’s not a question. 

“Of course, but you were easy. You ate everything and you never complained.”

_ “Well-” _

“Alright, you never complained  _ much.  _ Nothing like mom when she was pregnant. She was all about the pickles - those were tough to get!”

Octavia smiles thoughtfully. “I had pickles for the first time in years the other day. I didn’t even think about it, I just suddenly wanted them.” 

A warmth fills Bellamy’s heart. “There you go, then. Runs in the family.” 

“I guess so.” 

“Lincoln told me about the new house. That’s really great, O.” 

“Thanks Bell... It just feels right, you know? That we build a home that isn’t in Trikru or Skaikru, but somewhere in between.”

“Yeah, I get it. And I’m really happy for you.”

“Aww, don’t worry,” she nudges him gently, correctly interpreting the look on his face, “we’ll be here lots, obviously. She’s going to love having you as an uncle.”

“She?”

A hesitant look crosses Octavia’s face. “I don’t know for sure, it’s just a feeling I have.”

Bellamy nods. “Have you thought about names?”

“Well, if it’s a boy Lincoln likes Kol, and if it’s a girl I was thinking… Aurora.”   

Bellamy feels his eyes burn as he looks at his brave sister, the very image of their brave mother all those years ago. 

“Do- do you like it?” Octavia asks, nerves creeping into her voice.

“I love it.” Bellamy smiles. “And she would too. She would be so proud of you, Octavia.” 

“Thanks, Big Brother. I think she’d be pretty proud of you too.” 

 

\--

 

Bellamy is lurking. 

Maybe it’s the third cup of Murphy’s ginger drink, sweet and smooth and strong enough to bring down an ox. Maybe it’s that he’s had a very long day. Maybe it’s that he’s travel-weary and lonely and wants Clarke so much he can barely breathe. Whatever the reason, he’s tucked himself in a shadowed, quiet edge of the bar and is watching Clarke like a creeper, trying to convince himself that going to speak with her won’t end in disaster. 

She’s up by a fire on the near side of the square. Across from her, Raven and Wick are stretched out on a bench to themselves, telling a story in tandem while Jasper, Monty and Harper watch, laughing. All of them are smiling with the languid, easy smiles of old friends. They’re his family, the people Bellamy loves most in the world, and yet he can’t manage to bring himself to join them. The very air between him and Clarke feels charged now, electric, in a way it never was before. And while he’s wanted nothing more all day than to be around her, now that he has the opportunity his muscles feel frozen. It’s like he’s standing on the edge of a sharp precipice, looking over the edge and trying to talk himself into jumping. 

“Bellamy?” Miller’s swaggering towards him, a gentle frown creasing his eyebrows. A pair of empty cups swing in his loose grip, he’d clearly been on his way to the still before noticing Bellamy and diverting over to him. “What are you doing back here? We’re all over there-” he indicates with his spare hand to the fire that Clarke and the others are gathered around.

Bellamy shrugs, too slow to think of a reasonable answer. Before he can think better of it, his gaze drifts back to Clarke. Following his gaze, Miller takes this in, looking back and forth between Bellamy and Clarke. For a moment nothing happens, as Miller pieces together Bellamy’s lovelorn expression. Then, without warning, Miller throws his hands up in a gesture of pure exasperation.

“Oh my god, are you  _ kidding  _ me?” Miller’s voice is too loud, carrying easily across the bar and drawing a couple of curious glances. “What the hell is your problem?”

Bellamy blinks, stunned. Of all the people to start yelling at him this evening, he really didn’t think Miller would have been one of them. “What are you talking about?”

_ “What do you think I’m talking about?”  _ Miller shouts back indignantly. Bellamy glances at the people nearby who are now definitely watching with interest. Miller follows his gaze and seeing their audience takes a breath and steps closer, lowering his voice. “Look, I agreed to the diplomatic mission in the Blue Cliffs because I knew you needed space to sort things out. Then I watched you mope around the place, brooding like you’re a tortured soul from one of those stupid romance ballads Harper loves. The whole time we were away, you were just a mess. And I let it slide ‘cause I figured, hey, at least now he knows. So now that we’re back, for fuck’s sake pull yourself together, Bellamy.” 

“Miller, I really don’t understand-”

“Don’t lie,” Miller rolls his eyes.  _ “Obviously _ I’m talking about Clarke.” There is a pained look on Miller’s face as he continues awkwardly. “Bellamy, please believe me when I say that I am the very last person who wants to be having this conversation with you, but this is getting ridiculous. You love her desperately. You are miserable without her. So please, for all our sakes’, will you just go ask her to dance or something and put the rest of us out of our goddamn misery?”

“It’s-” Bellamy tries to start in protest, but he's not really sure what he’s saying, “It’s complicated.” he finishes a little lamely. Seeing Miller’s unimpressed face he modifies it closer to the truth. “ _ She’s _ complicated.” 

“Sure,” Miller concedes, “but not as complicated as you think. She loves you.” Miller hesitates and then adds, “you do know that, right?”

Bellamy nods. Yes, he knows that she loves him, but he also knows that for as long as he’s known her something has always been holding her back. He considers confiding this to Miller, but his friend looks so hopeful, so sure that a quick and easy resolution is in reach, that Bellamy can’t bring himself to disappoint. 

“Yeah,” he says instead, “Maybe I will go ask her to dance.” 

Miller smiles both out of pleasure at hearing Bellamy’s resolution, and out of relief of being done talking about this. 

So, with no other option open to him, Bellamy makes his way over towards Clarke.   

The music from the dancefloor is loud on the other side of the square. It vibrates through Bellamy’s boots, pulses through the air, 

“You throw a good party.” Bellamy has to shout a little to be heard over the noise. 

“Thanks!” Clarke’s smile is easier now, with the stress of the festival mostly passed. “That was quite the fight. How are you feeling?”

“Well, I’ll be sore as hell in the morning. But other than that I’ll be fine.” He rolls his shoulder again experimentally. It hurts much less than it did a few hours ago, but that might be the alcohol talking.

They exchange another tentative smile. Nervous energy pulses through Bellamy in time to the pounding music. Well, now or never.

“Do you want to dance?” 

Immediately, he knows this isn’t going to go to plan. Clarke shifts, her expression closing off. She shakes her head as she stands. “I’m not giving you another reason to run away again.” The venom in her voice knocks him back.

Caught completely off guard, Bellamy watches in stunned silence as she turns and storms away. The accusation is so unfair, so completely unjustified, that he’s chasing after her before he can think better of it. He follows her away from the noise of the centre of camp, the noise of the party falling away rapidly as he runs.

“You’re the one who made it clear that we weren’t in a relationship,” he calls to her back. “That we were free to do what we wanted and see other people.” Following her around to the far side of Raven’s gate, he continues, “I left because I couldn’t handle that. I couldn’t stick around to watch that, okay?”  

Clarke whips around, glaring at him. “Yeah, well, I missed you.” It sounds like an accusation, but as he meets her eye he sees the hurt behind them and he’s unsure of how to respond. 

“I missed you. A lot. And at first I couldn’t figure out what felt so different when you got back. Because it wasn’t the colour. The colour was always there, so when you came back... I mean, sure, I noticed it get brighter, but it’s not like I had been in grey. The thing is I didn’t care about the colour. So then I couldn’t put my finger on it, what was so different, and then I realized. It’s you. I missed you.”

The vulnerable honestly in Clarke’s voice leaves Bellamy breathless. He’s suddenly scared to allow himself to believe what he’s hearing. 

“I don’t care if I see colour forever or never again, but I missed you. I want to be with you. The world is better when you’re around. And that’s not me choosing the colour because of fate or destiny, that’s just me choosing you. I want to choose you.”

He’s heard enough. Bellamy moves quickly to close the distance between them. He wraps her up in his arms, his lips crashing onto hers. He feels Clarke melt instantly into his embrace, kissing him back with abandon. 

Bellamy’s first kiss with Clarke, just before he went away to the Blue Cliffs, had been a little overwhelming. Amazing, definitely, but not really, truly, what he had wanted. He could tell, even then, that Clarke was holding back. This, though - this is… Clarke’s hand is around the nape of his neck, her lips are warm under his, her back arching under his touch. And this is everything he’s ever been scared to ask for.

After a time, Bellamy pulls back, leaning his forehead against hers. He gazes into her eyes from inches away. “Clarke Griffin, I would choose you even if I were blind. I love you. Not because the world is brighter than the sun when you’re near. I love you, for you.”

“I love you too, Bellamy Blake. Even if I were blind.” 

They settle on the ground by Raven’s gate, taking their time with each other. Speaking in quiet voices they finally talk to one another. For hours they sit there, they share stories of their time apart, and laugh as they review the day’s festivities, all punctuated with languid, exploratory kisses. 

  
With a deep breath, Bellamy closes his eyes, taking in the scent of Clarke soap, the feel of his fingers ghosting across his collarbone, the sound of her low breathing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright dear readers that's it!! The End. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your kind comments and kudos along the way. Thank you for reading and coming with us on this journey that turned into a far longer and more epic fic than was originally planned. I hope you have enjoyed it. It has certainly been an absolute pleasure to write and a joy to share with you all. 
> 
> xxx


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